The Qi of Hate and Love
by SailOnSilvergirl
Summary: When an ex-con is intent on killing the three witnesses who testified against him, will Sherlock and John (and Mycroft and Lestrade) be able to stop him? The stakes are high - one of the witnesses is a Major Character.
1. Chapter 1 - Prey

**Four cups whumpage; 2 cups murder and mayhem; 2 cup Hurt/Comfort; ¼ cup fluff; 1 cup of angst; 1 cup of humour for leavening, bake for 8 chapters. **

**Whumpage, BAFM!John BAMF!Sherlock; squint really hard; abuse of wonderful medical technique not to mention medical ethics; the usual amount of swearing.**

**Warnings this chapter: adverse reaction to anaesthesia; threat of whumpage; language.**

CHAPTER 1

PREY

Sherlock surged out of the anaesthesia like a panicked race horse, impossibly long limbs thrashing, eyes blazing but unseeing, striking out blinding at anything in his path. His fist caught John under the eye, opening a small gash. John lunged to Sherlock's left, planting himself firmly behind the consulting detective and out of harm's way. The doctor wrapped his arms around him, effectively pinning his elbows to his sides. _Christ, even injured and fighting the effects of the drug, Sherlock was hellishly strong! _Choking, gasping for breath, Sherlock redoubled his efforts. John became an Immovable Object and tightened his grip. He put his mouth close to Sherlock's ear, whispering urgently.

"Sherlock, breathe! _B_r_eathe_!"

Sherlock stilled.

"You're all right. I've got you."

Sherlock nodded, as the trusted voice reached him as no other could. But his body tensed for flight again even as the consulting detective fought down the reflex. Three seconds, four…still another tremor coursed through his muscles and he grunted, straining against John's grip.

"Steady… Steady."

Sherlock quieted again.

"Drugged?" he whispered, his breath ragged.

"Yes."

And another quaver, trembling muscles trying to galvanize for fight or flight.

"Just ride it out. I've got you. Breathe with me." John inhaled deeply through his nose loud enough for Sherlock to hear him. "Hold it…release." John released though his mouth, so that Sherlock could feel his breath against his cheek. Sherlock's ribcage contracted under John's locked wrists. "Again." John's chest pressed against Sherlock's back, and they continued their synchronous breathing. "Again." After thirty seconds, the shuddering waned.

"Injuries?" Sherlock's voice was shaky.

"Minor."

Another nod.

John felt the tension begin to bleed from Sherlock's muscles.

"I'm going to release you now," John said calmly.

A moment's hesitation, then another nod.

John relaxed his grip but maintained contact, keeping Sherlock grounded. He shifted position so that he was facing him, keeping his hands on Sherlock's upper arms. He saw awareness coming back into those astonishing eyes, which were now grey in the cloudy aftermath of a misty rain.

"You're the rescue party, then?"

"None other."

The slightest smile tugged at the corners of Sherlock's mouth. He started to speak, when John suddenly raised a hand in warning. John had his Browning in hand, safety off, and had spun toward the sound, putting himself between Sherlock and the noise before the detective could react.

"Still a threat?" Sherlock whispered.

John gave an uncertain shrug, but kept his left arm out to his side, fingers splayed, signalling Sherlock to stay behind him. Sherlock found himself oddly touched by John's protectiveness; he attributed it to side effects of the sedation.

A squirrel scampered through the brush and up a tree. Sherlock exhaled heavily, and John lowered his weapon. The Consulting Detective then joined in checking his surroundings, starting with himself.

"My shirt is unbuttoned. Why is my shirt unbuttoned?" His voice was slurry.

"I was looking for trauma."

Sherlock frowned.

"I was looking for trauma, you git," John said emphatically, as he tucked the Browning back in his waistband. "And I'm going to do it again now that I have better light. Hold on to something, for God's sake, will you? You look like a Weeble."

Sherlock scoffed but did, indeed, hold on to a nearby pillar. He was uncharacteristically docile as John's hands moved professionally over his torso.

Sherlock looked down, just now realising that he was standing on his coat, which was spread out on the ground, still damp from the earlier shower. It had splotches of mud and damp grass, and the swath from the gymnasium door to the shadows of the parking structure showed a telltale pattern: John had obviously done a blanket drag using his coat —a wise choice, not knowing the extent of head or spine injuries.

"My coat! Look what you've done to my coat."

"Better it needed stitches than you."

Sherlock apparently did not agree.

A thought—a concern?—was trying to make its presence known in Sherlock's mind but it danced in the shadows before pirouetting away.

John recited the inventory of injuries. Multiple bruises, contusion on the chin, all most probably the result of the initial skirmish. He put up a fight before the anaesthetic took hold. Torso clear. Whoever did this hadn't had time to get down to business yet.

"Look at you, you're a mess."

"Speak for yourself," Sherlock harrumphed, looking at the bloody cut under John's eye.

"Yes, well, they didn't do that."

A frown wrinkled Sherlock's brow. "No? Then—?" And understanding. "Oh, impressive! I wouldn't have thought I had the strength at the moment. Perhaps your reflexes are slow—what did you have for lunch?"

John's mouth fell open.

Sherlock immediately realized his gaffe. "I mean… Sorry." Like flipping a switch, Sherlock adopted an apologetic look that was so patently manufactured, John could only sigh, but he wore a bemused expression that said he'd be lording this over Sherlock for weeks.

"You're going to be insufferable, aren't you?" asked Sherlock.

John chuckled before growing serious. "Tranquilizer or anaesthetic?"

"I'm fine, John."

"Tranquilizer or anaesthetic?"

"Not chloroform. Perhaps a…" he paused, frustrated that he couldn't find the word… "sop'rific?" He ran his fingers through his hair as he tried to suss out the drug options. "Perhaps Findil…" no, that didn't sound right…he tried again, "Fenatyl..." another exasperated sigh."Fentanyl. No, unlikely, since I've never reacted like that—." He gave John a suspicious look. "You're not concerned about which drug they used. You're trying to assess my mental state."

John smiled. "Yup. And you're still lagging about ten seconds behind your usual, brilliant, sarcastic self. Side effects?"

"Headache, nausea—"

"And unusual compliance. You normally resist any of my attempts at examin—"

"Distracted," he muttered. The niggling thought made another fleeting appearance and vanished.

John was about to ask if Sherlock was up to going a couple of rounds with whomever might still be out there, but he got his answer when Sherlock repeatedly fumbled trying to button his shirt.

Sherlock paced, agitated, occasionally reaching out a hand to steady himself. He frowned. "Why didn't they continue what they started?"

"What?"

"Why aren't I more injured? More to the point, why aren't you?"

"Sorry?"

"Aside from _that_," Sherlock said, waving vaguely at the cut below John's eye, "You've not a mark on you. You didn't just walk in, find me, free me, and walk—"

"Yes, I did. That's exactly what I did. There was no one guarding you."

John remembered how the eerie silence of the gym triggered his high alert level, how every instinct screamed _get him out of here now! _anddrove him to grab Sherlock's coat from the darkened floor, roll him onto it, and dash for the relative safety of the shadows outside. They'd only been outdoors for minutes when Sherlock started to rouse.

"No, no, no, something's amiss…" Sherlock pressed his palms to his eyes, frustration building as the thought just would not coalesce. Until finally, "Ah! Why would a hunter leave his prey alone to possibly escape?"

"Unless they wanted him to escape?"

"There was no interrogation, no duress, no demands."

"They want you to lead them to something?"

"A possibility."

"You were a lure?"

"Good, yes. Lured you, didn't it? But there was no follow-up. Clearly you weren't targeted, or followed." Sherlock checked their surroundings again. "You weren't? Followed?"

"Not followed. Definitely not followed." John circled back to Sherlock's original thought. "A predator doesn't abandon his prey unless there's a threat, some kind of danger."

From their shared look, it was apparent that the same thought occurred to each of them. Sherlock nodded, giving voice to their conclusion.

"Or there's a more dangerous predator in the area."

oOo


	2. Chapter 2 - Predators

**Warnings this chapter: language.**

CHAPTER 2

PREDITORS

The world's only Consulting Detective and his good doctor moved stealthily in the shadows along the parking structure's inner walls, pausing occasionally when Sherlock needed to fight off a wave of nausea or dizziness. They slowly made their way toward the street. Although there had been no further sight or sound of people or autos, they remained watchful.

Coming into the open of the street and the oddly comforting red lights of the CCTV cameras, they walked with more purpose. Sherlock's balance was somewhat better now, and he needed to pause less frequently. As they passed under a streetlight, they heard the soft purr of an engine. John pivoted quickly toward it, Browning in hand, only to be met by the sight of a reassuringly familiar black limousine. He and Sherlock huffed out breaths of relief as their tension drained away. The door opened, and Althea's passive face greeted them.

With the appearance of Mycroft's operatives, it was now readily apparent who the "more dangerous predator" was who had frightened off Sherlock's abductors.

oOo

"Who did you piss off this time, Sherlock?" John asked from the comfort of the limo's back seat. Sherlock's upper lip curled but he didn't respond. Anthea took her eyes from her Blackberry long enough to give John a sidelong glance and a suppressed grin.

Through a mouthful of biscuit, John rattled off a list of neighbours, shopkeepers, disgruntled clients, and New Scotland Yarders, all of whom Sherlock had recently pissed off, but none of whom had the brains, brawn, or wherewithal to overpower Sherlock. As John stuffed another McVities into his mouth, Sherlock turned away, fighting the nausea.

"John, must you?"

"Sorry. Adrenaline ramps up my appetite." He rummaged through the limo's stock, found a bottle of water, and thrust it at the still-pale detective. Sherlock pushed it away.

"Sip. Slowly," the doctor said in his most authoritarian voice.

Sherlock sulked, but opened the bottle. He didn't move it toward his mouth. John cocked his head, and raised an eyebrow. Sherlock knew the index finger-point was next. He sighed, took a sip. Anthea pursed her lips to hide her smile.

John gestured once more at the food supply and small fridge. "I'm starving. May I?"

Anthea nodded.

John saw enough food essentials to survive a week of post-Apocalyptic isolation, along with a bottle of chilled champagne, and two small glass jars of caviar on ice.

"Ooh, this looks good." He twisted the lid off one of the caviar jars. Althea let out a small gasp. Sherlock raised a stunned eyebrow. John put several scoops of the milky-white eggs into his mouth with the delicate mother-of-pearl spoon.

The look of bliss on John's face was almost orgasmic. "Oh, God," John breathed, "this is… is…!"

"Quite." Sherlock's eyebrow just would not come down.

"What? I have had caviar before, you know. I'm not a total barbarian. Must say, I've never seen white before."

"I think that I can say with certainty that you haven't had this kind."

"Why's that, then?"

"Because what you are eating is Almas Iranian Beluga, John, and you have just consumed approximately"—his calculations were slower than normal—"_£200 _worth."

John paled as white as the Almas and tried to imagine under what possible contingency pre-chilled caviar would be considered an essential, then he remembered in whose car they were riding.

As if on cue, Mycroft's image appeared on the limo's secure computer screen.

John lowered the jar of caviar below camera range.

Without preamble, Sherlock asked, "What on your surveillance cameras triggered a red flag?"

"Good evening to you, too, Sherlock. You are operational, I take it?"

"Mycroft, let's not get overly sentimental, shall we? Agitated emergence from the anaesthesia. Otherwise, fine."

"Curious."

"Indeed."

"I'm fine, too, Mycroft, thanks for asking."

"Your face is cut," Mycroft said, as if just noticing John's presence.

"Collateral damage." Sherlock answered for him.

Mycroft looked totally disinterested.

"Beginning two days ago, surveillance cameras picked up an unmarked van cruising Baker Street no fewer than five times a day, always slowing as it passed 221B. There was ample parking available, no stopping for deliveries, no discharging or picking up of passengers; report on the licence plate revealed that the vehicle had been stolen three days prior. The windows were heavily tinted, prohibiting visuals on the number of people involved or their identification. The behaviour suggested that they were reconnoitring to ascertain your travel patterns."

"Yes, yes," Sherlock said impatiently. As he stared at the screen, he realized that he was listing about thirty degrees to his left; he overcorrected, sighed, and settled for 20 degrees to his right, his hand on the seat to steady himself.

"The van went off the grid for twenty minutes in an area where the cameras have been a bit troublesome of late. We lost sight of you, brother mine, in the same general area. The network re-sighted the van entering the gymnasium parking lot at a time when the building was known to be closed. I thought it prudent to send a car to survey the area around the gymnasium. Concurrently, we observed John leaving Baker Street with some haste. When he leaned forward to enter the taxi, we also observed the outline of his Browning in his waistband… Anthea, remind me to compliment the team that developed the new CCTV high definition lens that we are testing in certain areas. Remarkable clarity."

Sherlock nodded slowly, making a concerted effort to process the information.

John filled the awkward void. "Whatever your reasoning, Mycroft, it worked. Your presence scared off whoever was there. I think it's fair to say that your presence would frighten the wings off the Archangel Michael." Mycroft took that as a compliment. "And, I appreciate the lift home. Taxis are so awkward when Sherlock's in a strop."

"I can only imagine."

"And when was the last time you were in a taxi, Mycroft?" John asked. Mycroft made an unpleasant face. "Thought so," John said, not daring to grin.

"Which raises several questions, John. How were _you_ able to locate Sherlock?" Mycroft asked, as if talking to a maths dolt who had somehow stumbled upon the unified field theory.

"I got a text, totally out of character, asking me to meet Sherlock outside the Egg."

"What do you mean, out of character? Out of character how?" Sherlock pressed.

"It said "please."

Sherlock harrumphed.

"It was suspicious. Either Sherlock hadn't sent the text or had sent it under duress. Either way, not good.… You're not the only one with resources, Mycroft." John said, with a bit more attitude than Anthea was used to hearing from him. This was turning into a truly entertaining evening.

"I have a…contact…who works at Sherlock's phone carrier. Triangulated the location of his mobile."

"And who might that person be?"

"That's not a question you get to ask, Mycroft." His contact's actions walked a fine line of legality. Crossed it, actually. "And don't bother trying to figure it out. The person in question," he said, carefully not identifying the person by sex, "made sure there were no paper or electronic trails… The trace showed that Sherlock's mobile was nowhere near the Egg, but was at or near the gymnasium."

Sherlock looked surprised, then impressed.

"The best course of action would have been for you to contact me," Mycroft said sternly.

John's eyes narrowed, and with more than a little heat, he countered. "The best course of action would have been for you to warn us of the 'suspicious activity.' This whole thing could have been avoided."

"Perhaps." It was as much of an admission as they would get.

"And a second, perhaps more disturbing question, John. How did you evade detection by my team?"

John snorted. "I'm not telling you!"

"The cameras lost sight of you after you after you left the taxi some distance from the gymnasium, then you traversed a rather high wall and disappeared into a building."

"Hmmm. Imagine that." He sounded casual, even a bit taunting. "Mycroft, I never saw your team's car anywhere, certainly not at the gym."

"And they never saw you, because by the time you arrived, they were already in pursuit of the van. One can only surmise that they had seen the car surveying the area. They left, shall we say, with justifiable haste. Unfortunately—"

"You lost the van." Sherlock sighed.

Mycroft sighed. "The location of the van is…temporarily…unknown."

"Not one of your better days, brother."

"Moving on. The CCTV cameras near the gymnasium neither saw you approach nor enter the facility."

John nodded but said nothing.

"John?" Mycroft said, with a slight tilt of his head—the closest Mycroft ever came to saying _please. _Or it could have been a command; hard to tell with the elder Holmes. John kept him waiting—just because he could—then finally spoke. One teased Mycroft at his own peril.

"As I said, I'm resourceful. Hanging about with you two teaches a man a thing or two about stealth. Not to mention a little place called Afghanistan." A hint of a smile tugged at Sherlock's mouth. "Used side alleys, greenery, shadows, walked inside the parking structure. I made damn sure that no-one outside or inside the gym saw me coming."

"Which raises another question, brother. How did they take you? You're hardly an easy man to overpower."

"Uncertain." Sherlock mumbled. Did he actually look embarrassed? He pressed his palms to his forehead; cohesive thought was a struggle. Stalling for time, he took another sip of water. John and Mycroft exchanged glances.

"Oral administration is slower acting," Sherlock ventured, "and might have allowed for one to be unaware of its administration. However, that would have required my being followed for some length of time until a decidedly chance moment when I opted to eat— hardly likely. And I know when I am being followed."

"Unless there had been a team," his brother added.

"Quite so."

"Likewise, you would have been aware of any intrusion into 221B."

John felt like he was watching a ping pong match and decided to remind the brothers who the physician was in the group. "Aerosol would have caused a greater level of retrograde amnesia. Which leaves—. "

John reached over and undid the buttons on Sherlock's cuffs. "Sherlock, drop your trousers."

"John, really. This is hardly—"

"Needle stick."

"Anthea, interior lights, if you please," Mycroft asked.

John examined each arm, then took Sherlock's face in his hands, turning his head to each side, examining his neck for a puncture. "Sherlock, do you remember feeling a sting? Did anyone bump into you on the street?"

Sherlock's left hand drifted to a spot on his hip. His eyes widened as the memory surfaced. "It had started to drizzle. People began rushing. Someone, a man—White, early 50s, short, haggard—stumbled into me. I thought it a crude attempt at pick-pocketing. I remember checking my wallet. Then moments later, feeling light-headed."

"Which, of course, you attributed to not having eaten since St. Swithin's Day." John offered.

"There was a scuffle, and then…"

Sherlock scowled, unfastened his belt, and dropped his trousers a bit. Anthea pretended to be elsewhere. The mark on his hip was small, tinged with red, but clearly visible both to John and Sherlock. Sherlock got himself sorted, redid his belt and cuffs.

"So, now we know the _how_, but we still need the _why_ and _who_.

In unison, Mycroft, Sherlock, and Anthea said, "_Whom._"

John rolled his eyes.

"Mycroft, turn the car around. Now! Get me back to the gymnasium before it's reopened to the public. I need to examine the area, there may be—"

"No offence, brother dear, but you might be more yourself in the morning. I doubt that in your present condition you could deduce the location of your loafers."

"I never wear loafers." Sherlock's temper flared. "I need data, Mycroft! I have nothing at the moment! Nothing! I cannot work without input. So turn this car around—" he slammed his hand into the seat "—and get me there! Now! Or let me out and I'll take a taxi—"

"Sherlock," John said softly, laying a hand gently on his wrist.

"Don't patronize me, John!" He spit the words out like venom, throwing John's hand off his wrist.

"I'd say he's pretty close to normal."

"We are targets, John! And we are losing time. I have no intention of doing nothing, but I cannot do anything, I cannot do my work, if I don't have data. I won't have the evidence at the scene being trampled by idiots."

There were times when John needed to walk on eggshells with Sherlock; other times, he needed his arse kicked; still other times, he needed a gentle hand. It took John a millisecond to decide which approach was needed here.

He met Sherlock's anger, decibel for decibel, with a challenge, using the only argument that might possibly work. "_Think, _Sherlock! For Christ's sake, take a moment and just _think_! Reason it out."

Sherlock turned his head toward the window.

"Don't you dare turn away from me, you arrogant twat!"

Sherlock was seething, but he re-established eye contact.

Mycroft, out of common courtesy—yes, he actually did have some—averted his eyes and scrupulously studied his well-manicured fingernails. But like the pull of a train wreck, his gaze kept drifting back. He had never been in the presence of such acrimony between his brother and the Army doctor. It was fascinating, and he wasn't about to miss it. Sherlock rarely surprised him. John, on the other hand…

John was brooking none of Sherlock's shit. "We can turn this damn car around right now, you stubborn prat, and you can go back to that sodding gymnasium, and deduce the hell out of it, and possibly, just possibly miss something important, something vital because you were too sodding obstinate to do the logical thing, or you can use that fucking brilliant intellect of yours, reason it out, and conclude that your best option for finding accurate data is to wait until morning when the damn drug is out of your system and you're _thinking_ clearly."

John's jaw was clenched, determined, but his breathing was slow, deep, and controlled. Sherlock quivered with anger, and his breath came in short, staccato bursts. The stare-down seemed interminable. Neither man wavered. Finally, Sherlock's shoulders slumped almost imperceptibly. Game over: logic one, emotion naught. Sherlock nodded fractionally. The men's eyes softened, as did their postures.

John returned his hand to Sherlock's arm. And there it stayed.

Mycroft softly cleared his throat. "I have already dispatched a team to secure the gymnasium until the morning. If you agree, I see no need to involve the Yard yet. The paperwork—"

"Tedious."

John finally looked at the screen. "About the van, then? You're looking for it, of course."

"With all of our resources, John," Mycroft said, deliberately using the wording John had used previously. "But may I suggest we return to your initial question? Who have you 'annoyed' this time, Sherlock?"

John's brow furrowed. "But you weren't on screen when I asked that. How—?"

Mycroft's smiled tightly.

"Ah." John nodded. When Mycroft said that he and Sherlock were under constant surveillance, he meant constant.

"The usual rabble," Sherlock responded to his brother's question. "There have been no overt threats, nothing which would lead one to…" His voice trailed off. He took another sip of water.

"Then one might reasonably surmise that another attempt will be made."

There were murmurs of agreement from the back seat.

"Until tomorrow, then," Mycroft nodded in dismissal. "John, I do hope the caviar met with your approval."

OOo


	3. Chapter 3 - Scenes of the Crimes

**Warnings this chapter: Murder victim, including physical description.**

CHAPTER 3

SCENES OF THE CRIMES

"John! Wake up!" Sherlock shouted urgently.

John woke with a start, already half out of bed and assuming a defensive posture when he asked, "What's wrong?"

"It's 4:30. Time to go."

"For God's sake, Sherlock, I'm sleeping."

"You are clearly awake. The gymnasium awaits."

"And you are clearly a lunatic. Bloody sun's not even up," he huffed and shuffled toward the loo. "And I'm heading to the shower."

"Shower later."

"No, I'm showering now, thank you very much. Put on the kettle, will you?"

"John, we have to go now. Mycroft can only hold off the stampeding masses and the local constabulary for so long."

"Constabulary? You mean Lestrade."

"Hardly. Not his division," he said, straight-faced.

"You know as well as I do that Mycroft can hold off whoever he wants from now until Armageddon if he wants. Put on the kettle or I am seriously going to injure you. After I shower."

oOo

As promised, the gymnasium site was pristine, undisturbed from the previous night's drama. Sherlock and John entered, trailed by one of Mycroft's men, who maintained his position while the pair undertook their examination of the scene. He was purportedly there to preserve the Chain of Evidence for anything the men might find. It didn't escape their attention that the man was fully armed and part of his security team.

Standing in the doorway, Sherlock could see the streaks left by his coat when John had pulled him across the floor. Upon closer inspection, Sherlock pointed out several scuff marks.

"John, you are wearing the same shoes you wore yesterday." It wasn't a question.

John understood where that thought was going. He lined up each foot with the scuff marks and shoe prints. There was a match for tread marks and sole colour of the scuff marks.

"It was raining when you arrived?"

"No, stopped. It was just a quick shower."

"Ah. That explains the bits of mud in and around the footprints."

A single chair stood under a main light toward the side of the room.

"Did you find me in the chair?"

John shook his head emphatically. "Floor."

"So, one of the two men dragged the chair from there"—he pointed to a column of chairs stacked in a corner—"to here. Tie wraps dropped there, and there. Their immediate intentions were obvious." Sherlock watched the scene play out in his head. "Until they were interrupted."

"Wait a minute. Two men? How—"

"John, really. Even after a shower and tea?" Sherlock pointed to a separate entrance door on the east side of the room.

Eye roll.

"Obviously, I was brought in through the east door. There was mud and grass embedded in the treads of their shoes and deposited there…and there," he said, pointing emphatically. "In fact, I was half-carried without resistance. Hoisted under each arm—drag marks. You saw the state of my shoes… But they couldn't open the door whilst holding me, so at least one found it necessary to release his hold…thereby causing both of my legs to leave marks on the floor. They resumed carrying me. More weight on the inside shoes than the outer. One man was short, about your height. The other taller but not quite my height. I was too tall and too heavy for them to handle easily. See how each knee occasionally touched the floor. The shorter man weighed less than the other, judging from how often my right knee scraped along the floor. Then they dropped me, pulled over the chair, and prepared to do…whatever they had planned to do."

"Sherlock, there are more footprints—different tread patterns than the others—over here. Could have been more than two, then?"

"No traces of mud or grass, so left here before the rain had begun. Clearly, the custodian did not wash the floor last night. Or clean at all." The discarded remains of several meals were strewn about the room. "And there—an empty bottle of Fursty Ferret—God, I can smell the hops from here—spilt under the seats there. The man should be sacked."

John gestured to Mycroft's man. He conferred with him for a moment, then the security man proceeded to retrieve the food, bottle, and tie wraps, and put them into evidence bags. The man used his mobile, and within minutes someone had arrived with a bag large enough to cover the chair.

Sherlock's mobile rang. He wrinkled up his nose when he saw the display.

"Mycroft?" John deduced.

"Mycroft." He answered the call. "If you do not have information on the missing van, go away."

"I do, indeed." Mycroft's voice was edgy.

"Oh, let me guess. Judging from your tone, the van was found either at the bottom of the Thames or torched, leaving no evidence behind."

"The latter, I'm afraid… You're at the gymnasium, I assume?"

"Don't play games, Mycroft. You know very well that I'm at the gymnasium, as I'm sure your minions have reported. And they have, no doubt, reported the dearth of physical evidence."

"Pitifully small amount evidence. If we are lucky, perhaps we'll get some fingerprints."

Sherlock held out little hope for anything more.

oOo

Mrs Margaret Trevor, age 40, according to her i.d., lay on her back, fully clothed, atop her neatly made bed. She'd been dead between 24-30 hours.

Sherlock's eyes scan the room.

"How long has she been a widow?" he asked, to no-one in particular.

"Three years, auto accident." Lestrade said without losing a beat, and he didn't even bother asking how Sherlock deduced that.

The Consulting Detective and Doctor approached the body. As he always did, John bowed his head briefly: it might have been in respect, it might have been in prayer, or simply to centre himself. He never said and no one ever asked.

Her shoulder-length dark hair fanned out across her pillow like a halo, arms at her sides, in a deadly mockery of sleep. There were no blood stains. No signs of forced entry. No signs of a struggle. No signs of having been restrained. No gunshot or knife wounds. No marks on her neck or across the trachea. No signs of anything amiss. Except—

Lestrade and his team, even Anderson and Donovan, had conceded that they were stumped. It might not even be a murder scene. Mrs Trevor _could_ have died a natural death. Except—

The first thing anyone would see was the bruising. Very odd bruising. There were large bruises in the webbing of both hands, extending from thumbs to index fingers and half-way across the hand.

Sherlock's eyes scanned the woman, then scanned the room, then returned to the woman.

"Not defensive bruises," Sherlock said with conviction. "Not offensive, either." What he was not going to say was that he had never before encountered anything remotely like that bruising pattern. It had him utterly perplexed. He did not like being perplexed.

"That's why we asked you two in. Bit of a head-scratcher, that."

To deflect his discomfort, Sherlock steered the questioning in another direction. "The bruises are the first thing you notice. What's the second thing?" Sherlock asked.

The others hesitated. "God, it's like dealing with primary schoolers. Her blouse, idiots! Look at her blouse."

Donovan—the only woman in the group—was the first to see it. "The buttons on her blouse are done up wrong. Cockeyed. They don't match up with the button holes, do they?"

The men frowned, then nodded as if they'd each had an epiphany.

"Bur that can happen to anyone, if they're rushin' about, tryin' to get ready to leave for work. Done it myself more than a few times," Donovan said.

"No doubt," Sherlock replied.

"What I mean is—"

"Look around the room, the flat. Look! It is compulsively neat. Meticulous. Every book lined up on the shelves, every thing in its place, not a stray paper, piece of mail, jewellery, clothing. Immaculately clean." He picked up her diary from the end table and flipped through it. "Every appointment for today, and every day, is given substantial travel time on either end. This is not a woman who rushes."

Lestrade glanced at his notes. "Confirms what the neighbours say. Fussy about her dress, appearance, bit of a nitpicker, yeah?"

"Compulsive. Drove everyone mental with her neatness, they said," Donovan read.

The Consulting Detective continued his observations.

"Did you find blood anywhere?"

"Nothing," Lestrade said.

"I know what caused the bruising," John said unexpectedly, and all heads turned toward him. "I just need to confirm."

John palpated the bruise on the purlicue of one hand, then compared both hands. "Bruises aren't deep… ecchymosis. Just under the surface." He pursed his lips thoughtfully.

"Caused by?" Lestrade said impatiently.

"Ah, here's where it might get interesting. Sherlock, give me your lens."

"What are you thinking?" Sherlock asked, intrigued.

"Tell you in a mo'."

John inspected each of her hands with the lens, then unbuttoned her blouse and respectfully raised the centre gore point of her bra to examine the midline of her chest between her breasts. "Uh-huh," he said with a confirming nod.

"I'm not convinced we've got a crime scene here. But I do know what caused her bruising."

Sherlock grabbed the glass and looked.

"I don't see anything unusual." Perplexed.

A small, smug smile fought to take over John's lips. "Don't you? Hmm."

That got an eyebrow from Lestrade.

"What?" Sherlock said, totally affronted.

"Was she taking any steroids?"

"Hey, how'd you make that leap? You're beginning to sound more like Sherlock every day." Lestrade shuddered. "Positively frightening thought, yeah? Anderson, check the medicine cabinet and her purse," he ordered.

Anderson rolled his eyes and grumbled.

Sherlock leaned down and re-examined the woman. "To do with the bruising?"

"Uh-huh."

Sherlock examined the young woman's arms, neck, and face. He sniffed, he prodded, he peered. Nothing. He lifted her blouse and bra, as John had—nothing.

"Perhaps with access at the morgue?" Sherlock sighed.

"Unnecessary." John unconsciously mimicked Sherlock's clipped style, and his eyes narrowed in something akin to victory, but he was hardly going to fall into Sherlock's habit of gloating at a crime scene.

Anderson shook the bottle of pills he'd found in the woman's purse. "Prednisone." Steriods.

Lestrade looked in the top draw of her night stand and held up something. "Inhaler."

"Also a steroid. Asthma attack?" Anderson suggested.

"Think, Anderson, think! If you were having an asthma attack, a potentially fatal asthma attack, would you be lying peacefully on your bed, hands calmly at your side? No, you would be frantic, desperate for every breath. You'd have your inhaler in hand, not tucked away in a drawer."

"C'mon, give over, John." Lestrade begged.

Sherlock couldn't stand it any longer. He shot John a look of pure venom, which John returned with a smile. And Lestrade found himself in the unique position of directing his questions at John.

"Any theories?" he asked.

"Just one."

"Just one?" Sherlock murmured disparagingly.

"That's one more than you have, isn't it, Smarty-pants?" John whispered as he passed Sherlock's side. The corner of Sherlock's mouth twitched up.

"Mrs Trevor was getting acupuncture treatments." John announced.

They all looked at him they way everyone usually looked at Sherlock.

"There are minute acupuncture needle marks at points LI4 on both hands. Very common points. As is the mediastinum point under the bra—don't remember what it's called. Hard to see unless you know what you're looking for."

Sherlock brow was deeply furrowed.

The Detective Inspector let out a grunt. "Oi, John, you've been keeping secrets from us? When'd you study acupuncture?"

"Didn't study it. Picked up a thing or two from a Chinese doc in my platoon. Helped more than a few blokes when the supply line went balls up and we ran out of painkillers. Figured a good doctor ought to know a thing or two about what others are offering. Even had a few sessions myself. Very impressive." He turned his attention back to the body. "Bruising after acupuncture isn't that unusual, but when it's this extensive… Well, you can be more susceptible to bruising if you're taking steroids."

"John, that was brilliant!" Sherlock beamed.

"You know you said that out loud," John teased.

"Shut up."

"You're saying a tiny little acupuncture needle could kill her?" Lestrade asked. "Hardly good for a proper stabbing. So what are you goin' to call this on your blog? Death by Bruising?"

"So what do ya mean, then? The needles were poisoned? Is that possible?" Donovan asked.

"Possible, not probable," Sherlock said.

"Could you even put enough poison on the end of an acupuncture needle?" Lestrade asked.

"It would have to be a highly concentrated toxin," Anderson suggested. They'd all but forgotten he was even in the room. Unphased, he continued. "Inland Taipan snake, Black Mamba venom. Then again, Aconite's a good one."

Sherlock feigned shock. "Oh, my God!" Sherlock breathed. "The world as I know it is ending, shoot me now! Anderson…" he said with high drama, "is correct."

Anderson held Sherlock's stare. Interesting.

Sherlock parried. "Death stalker scorpion—_Lieurus quinquestriatus—_is my personal favourite, but it takes too long. Perhaps as an experiment, Anderson, I could put some in your tea and analyze the timeline?"

John intervened. "All right, boys. Any of those toxins could do the job. Bit hard to get a hold of. Not exactly on the shelf at Tesco."

"Toxicology tests, then, yeah?"

John shrugged. "Might as well, Greg, but I think you'll come up empty. Anderson's right, as far as he went, but I don't think this is poisoning. Pallor's all wrong. I'd expect more cyanosis. All I'm saying is that the bruising was caused by acupuncture. I'm still not saying she was murdered."

"But in theory you could kill with acupuncture, but you would have to know what you're doing. And the police would have to know what to look for?" Sherlock looked to John for verification. He nodded.

"If you've taken all the photographs you need from this angle," Sherlock said to Lestrade, "I need to see her back."

"Lividity's set in, Sherlock," John said. "If there was bruising on her back, you're not going to see it now."

"Looking for something else."

Rigor was dissipating and the body was somewhat pliant. Sherlock lifted her blouse. As expected, Mrs Trevor's back was flushed with the purple and blue of lividity. But that's not what drew Sherlock's attention. He pointed to her bra.

"Three hooks. Only two fastened," he explained. "It's not that difficult to fasten or unfasten a bra."

"Got a lot of experience in that area, do you?" Donovan asked.

Sherlock ignored her but Lestrade gave her a jab in the side.

"But look here," Sally continued, after they'd rolled the body back. "She's not in there right. The bra, I mean. A bra's not somethin' you just loop over and fasten, ya know? Well, you don't know, but I'm telling you, you 'ave to line yourself up, so that your sumos" — she made round circular gestures around her nipples, then leaned forward and illustrated the technique — "are front and centre. Especially if you're at least a _C _like her."

"Definitely a _D,_" John said with authority.

"Jesus, I can't believe I'm listenin' to this," Lestrade said.

"Buttons askew. Bra done up wrong. 'Things' off-centre. So? How does that add up to a crime?" Anderson asked.

Sherlock sighed and shook his head in despair. "Remember, we are dealing with someone who was fastidious about her appearance. A woman like that would notice—feel it, feel the hook—if her bra were misaligned. I might be willing to accept misaligned buttons as a one-time occurrence. Incorrectly fastened bra on the same day? Stretching credibility. Off-centre nipples? Completely implausible. The conclusion is obvious. Someone else dressed her and rather hurriedly, I suspect, after her death. But only from the waist up; from the waist down, everything is done up properly. And that someone was obviously a man, unused to the nuances of putting _on_ a bra. Regardless of the cause of death, which an autopsy will no doubt reveal, I think we have established this as a crime scene."

oOo


	4. Chapter 4 - Cause of Death

**Warnings this chapter: autopsy details. **

CHAPTER 4

CAUSE OF DEATH

Across the street from the Trevor flat, a crowd of people had gathered behind the police lines. Two men watched with particular attention at the comings and goings of the forensics team and Lestrade's people. A stocky but muscular man—look in the dictionary under thug and his picture would be there—about 30, was impatient and unsmiling. A slightly built man in his early 50s watched with steady concentration. His interest piqued when he saw D.I. Lestrade, clearly the person in charge, leave the flat. When Sherlock Holmes and John Watson followed moments later, the man smiled and nudged his associate.

His smile widened when he saw Holmes and Watson take different cabs. He and the thug pushed their way to the kerb and hailed another cab. As he shut the door behind them, the older man said to the driver, "Damn! My mate just left without us in that cab"—he pointed to the taxi in question—"Would you mind—?" He waved a £10 note in the man's face. The cabbie grinned and took off in pursuit.

oOo

Molly had already done the preliminary work, and had made the customary Y-cut into Mrs Trevor's body cavity by the time John arrived.

"Oh, hello, so happy you could come. I mean, I'm not happy. Well, it's good. I mean, you're welcome to…"

John flashed a comforting smile. "Relax, Molly, I don't bite."

"Of course you don't. Silly thought." Molly flushed and John could see her—he could _see her_—mentally envisioning John gently biting her neck.

John cleared this throat and quickly gestured to the autopsy table. "Shall we? This is your area, so I'll just bow to your expertise."

Molly blushed again. She couldn't remember the last time anyone complimented her. "Where's Sherlock? Will he be along?"

"Nope. He's off with Lestrade." Her expression changed, and John wasn't sure if she was relieved or disappointed. She was certainly less nervous. He mentally chastised Sherlock for all the indignities he had foisted upon this sweet woman.

"Right, then…" Molly filled John in on the preliminary physical findings, which included confirming his observations on the hand bruising.

"There was nothing remarkable externally, aside from the bruising. And as you said at the scene—well, I wasn't there, but, of course I wasn't there, I was here, having some nibbles actually, and… well, the notes say…the notes Lestrade…" She took a breath. "Lestrade sent me your comments, and you're right, there are none of the expected signs of poisoning. So…so… Sorry, it feels a bit odd without—"

"Sherlock."

"Sherlock. Yes. Oh, God, I'm sorry, that was a terrible thing to say."

"It's fine, Molly. No offence."

She blushed again, stammered, and finally said, "All right, then. Let's have a look inside, shall we?"

"Hmm. Right."

Molly expertly folded open the tissue, then sawed the ribs and cut away the chest wall, exposing the organs. John's eyes were drawn immediately to the heart. Molly saw it too, judging by the slight gasp.

"Cardiac tamponade," she said.

"Yes."

Molly finished opening the pericardial cavity. "Oh, look, she's got a congenital sternal foramen," she said with a bit of excitement. "Don't see that often!"

"I've never seen one before."

"Hmmm, the foramen was perforated by something small…which then went through to the heart here." She pointed out a 3mm tear. "Undetected, this would easily cause tamponade and kill her if not treated immediately. Looks like there could be as much as 300cc's of blood in the sac. And, look, John, the lungs are hyperinflated—classic asthma presentation. If she'd been having an attack during the tamponade, she would have been tachy—"

"Heart beats faster, the tamponade would have killed her even more quickly."

Molly nodded, and he noted how confidently Molly spoke when she was on her own turf. Not a stutter or stammer to be heard.

"I don't understand. There were no external signs of trauma other than the various acupuncture sites," she said.

_This couldn't really be death by acupuncture. Could it? _

"Show me, Molly."

Molly folded back the skin of what used to be Mrs Trevor, and pulled down the overhead magnifier. They scanned the full torso.

They looked at the various pinpoint marks, some almost too small to see. But one stood out, larger than the others. It hadn't left a bruise, but obviously a larger gauge needle was used. The point was by the fourth intercostal space of the ribs—near the heart. The puncture did not line up directly with the tear; the needle would have had to have been angled to penetrate the heart.

"We might have to bring in an acupuncturist. I'm out of my depth here," John said.

"Just a sec," Molly pulled out a large chart showing acupuncture points and hung it from a clip. "Thought we might be needing this. Borrowed it from the chap upstairs in the Acupuncture Clinic."

John smiled. "Molly, you are the most underestimated woman in the universe."

Now it was her turn to smile. She started to fold back the skin over the body. "Oh, sorry. I shouldn't be smiling when I do this, should I?"

"Suppose not."

She put on her neutral facial expression, and proceeded to precisely line up the two sections. She checked the acupuncture chart. "Looks like it could be Shanzhong REN-17?"

John went to the computer and typed in a few phrases. "Says here that point can be used for treating asthma.… Molly, there's a caveat here, too. It says that a needle in that site should be inserted with caution, at a very precise angle"—he showed her the illustration—"or it could risk…well, this…" he said, indicating the heart, "and that it should never be inserted deeper than 2.5cm."

John went very quiet.

"John?"

"This was much deeper than that. At least 3.25, would you say?"

"Um, yes."

"The angle—"

"Um, yes."

"Had to be deliberate."

"Um, yes."

oOo

It was past noon as John spoke quickly into his mobile as he made his way through the corridors of St. Bart's toward the street.

"Molly hasn't finished the full autopsy, but Sherlock, it was a homicide. The acupuncturist."

Sherlock was already back at Baker Street. He shifted in his chair, readjusting the phone to his ear. "No, it wasn't, John. Lestrade and I have just come from the acupuncturist's. Dr Esther Levine, Doctor of Traditional Chinese Medicine, has a solid alibi."

They'd found the acupuncture office name—London Acupuncture and Herbs—in Mrs Trevor's diary, and he and Lestrade immediately put the doctor at the head of their suspect list.

Sherlock could still hear the reprimand in Dr Levine's voice when they showed surprise at seeing her—young, 29 at most, natural blonde, Uni grad, majored Mandarin, graduate of Glyndwr University of Traditional Chinese Medicine—and not some wizened Asian man. "_Really, Mr Holmes, stereotyping? I would have expected a more open mind from someone of your reputation. And Detective Inspector, you, as well. Shame on you both." _Sherlock had just stiffened but Lestrade had turned a bright red, like he'd been chastised by his mum in front of his school mates.

"Dr Levine," Sherlock continued as John tried to get a word in edgewise, "had a full day of appointments yesterday. Mrs Trevor, in fact, cancelled her appointment and a walk-in filled her spot. Levine never left the office yesterday, not even for lunch."

"I'm telling you, Sherlock, that Molly and I just saw the evidence! Mrs Trevor was killed by a deliberate insertion of an acupuncture needle into the heart."

That got his attention.

John was on the street now and walking quickly toward the kerb. There were several taxis approaching. He raised his hand to flag one down.

"Did you hear me, Sherlock?" John asked at the rare silence from the other end.

"Thinking... A revisit to Dr Levine is in order."

The taxi pulled to the kerb. Mobile still to his ear, John did not hear the burly man with the threatening expression quickly approaching him from behind.

oOo

**Author's Note: Glyndwr University of Traditional Chinese Medicine is a real school. Apologies to all acupuncture experts out there for any mistakes or inaccuracies. My own acupuncturist looked at me funny when I kept pressing for the names of some of the points he was using; I didn't dare tell him why I wanted to know.**


	5. Chapter 5 - Payback

**Warnings this chapter: whumpage; kidnapping; revenge; angst.**

**Thanks to the many kind readers who are following this story and have made it a favorite, and a special thanks to those who posted comments/reviews. You know who you are. Milk and cookies for all.**

CHAPTER 5

PAYBACK

Not realizing the danger behind him, John continued his conversation with Sherlock. He opened the right rear door and was half-in the back seat.

"Listen, Sherlock, we really should—."

Before he could reach to close the door, John sensed more than heard the movement behind him. He saw the shadow of an arm, heard the quick intake of breath from the man, and the cabbie's startled "Oi!" John reacted, dropping his mobile as he drove his right elbow up and back into the man's face and—

There was an unwritten law on the street that a real man never went for another man's groin. "_Hell with that_," John thought, as he struck out behind him with his left leg, hoping his foot hit its target. Judging from the man's grunt, John had only connected with his thigh. _Damn!_ John pivoted on one knee on the rear seat to face the man and readied a second volley.

Sherlock had heard the thud of the mobile as it hit the floor and listened to the muffled noises in the background.

"_John!"_

He called out again, then quieted. If John could answer, he would. He strained to hear any sounds that would help him identify what was happening.

The cabbie yelled but John barely heard it, muffled as it was by his adrenalin surge, his body automatically going into combat "tunnel vision" mode. His attacker was well trained, taller, and had a two-stone weight advantage over the army doctor.

The man reacted quickly and blocked John's blow, landing a glancing open-handed thrust to John's head, simultaneously throwing a wicked back-fisted punch to the cabbie's head, effectively rendering him unconscious. The cabbie slumped over in the seat. Some part of John's brain registered that the man was wearing nitrile gloves.

John was staggered by the blow, but retaliated with a strike to the man's solar plexus. The burly man cried out.

John became aware of the other rear door opening and of the sudden weight on the seat behind him. "_Oh, shit_."

Nitrile-gloved hands pinned his arms from behind but John easily broke the hold and thrust back with his head against the second attacker, connecting with the man's forehead. The man cried out, fell backward, then fell to the floor.

In the cramped quarters, John was off-balance, with one foot on the floor and the other still kneeling on the seat. He almost lost his balance as his foot landed on his mobile.

Sherlock grimaced as the sound of grunting and body blows were silenced as the phone went dead.

The burley man recovered quickly and lunged, wrapping his hands around John's throat. John locked his hands together in preparation for an upward strike to break the grip.

"I want him alive!" came the voice from behind him, and he again felt the man's weight on the back seat. Nothing for it then, until John could take care of the more immediate threat to his trachea. He soldiered on, his hands whipping up and effectively breaking the man's hold. It was then that he felt the sting of a syringe in the back of his neck.

He made one listless attempt at a final hand-palm to the nose of the man before him but the man dodged it easily, and John pitched forward into darkness.

The first attacker moved quickly to the kerb, wrenched open the driver's door, and heaved the unconscious driver to the sidewalk before getting behind the wheel and speeding away.

The entire incident took twenty seconds.

Three miles away at Baker Street, Sherlock hurled his cup of tea across the room, shattering it against the wall.

oOo

Twenty minutes later, Sherlock's mobile rang.

"We've found the cab," Lestrade said into his mobile.

Sherlock's voice was fear surrounded by ice. "Abandoned?"

"Yeah."

"Any—?

"No, Sherlock. No body."

Lestrade could hear the relieved breath Sherlock released.

oOo

Sherlock hated police cars but he made a rare exception and agreed to ride with Lestrade to the scene where the abandoned cab had been found, but only because Lestrade had somehow arranged for him to download the raw CCTV footage onto Sherlock's laptop. The first footage was from a camera in front of St. Bart's. The angle was bad and the faces of the two men weren't identifiable, but it was clear that they both wore gloves. Sherlock swore silently—no prints then. Movement of the three men, the cabbie, and of the fight was all that was discernible. They could see the intensity of the struggle, but little else. Even so, Sherlock observed that one man was well trained in fighting and defensive strategies, while the other was not.

The footage of the cab which had been abandoned in an alley it was grainy, underexposed, and rife with shadows. The men watched in silence as they saw two men hauling the body of a third man from the rear seat of the cab and putting him in a rear seat of a car parked behind it. It was impossible to make out facial features, license plates, or anything, so far as Lestrade could see. As for the car, it was as nondescript as any of the tens of thousands of look-alike cars on London's street.

"It's John," Sherlock said with certainty.

"How—?"

"It's John."

"He's alive then," Lestrade said, hoping he was right.

Sherlock had gone cold and steely.

"Lestrade, you know as well as I that there is a high probability that they were simply… transporting him…to a more distant location to dispose…" He didn't finish the sentence. They fell into an uneasy silence until they arrived at the scene.

"The scene's secure, Sherlock. They're holding it for you," Lestrade said as they got out of the car.

Sherlock nodded grimly, as Lestrade escorted him past the police lines, the constables, past a silent Anderson, and to the abandoned taxi.

"We only opened the boot. To look, you know…to see if—. Knew you'd want to search the interior yourself," Donovan said.

Sherlock gave a passing glance in the boot, then at the front seat before directing his attention to the rear, where John had been. His eyes skimmed the area.

"The cabbie?" he asked.

Donovan gave a curt nod. "In hospital. Nothing serious, but worse than useless as a witness. Can't remember shite about the men, 'cept to say one was a big bloke, the other short and slim."

"Most witnesses are useless," he said as he craned his neck to see under the seat. Sherlock knelt and saw what had caught his eye: John's mobile. He stretched, picked up the smashed phone and stood up. He said nothing as he looked at the shattered screen.

If Lestrade had to characterize how Sherlock held the mobile in his gloved hands, he would have said _reverently_. He saw Sherlock's jaw clench, followed by a thick swallow. Sherlock remained silent.

Anderson approached, evidence bag in hand. Sherlock glared at him. "Go away."

Lestrade spoke gently. "It's evidence, Sherlock. We have to—."

"You don't get to have this. Not yet." Sherlock whispered with intensity, hating the way his throat tighten around the words. "Lestrade…" It was a plea.

Lestrade nodded an okay and waved Anderson away, but Sherlock held out his hand.

"Give me the bag."

Anderson did, and Sherlock put the mobile in, sealing it before putting it in his pocket.

Like throwing a switch, the emotion left Sherlock's face and he became the Consulting Detective again.

"I'll dust it for prints. Mine will already be on it, of course."

"'Course they will. You use John's mobile as much as you use your own," Lestrade said with a slight smile.

Sherlock circled the taxi, dropped to his knees again, and searched under the other side of the seat. Something cylindrical. Lestrade shone his torch on it. It was a marker. Black. Not just a marker. Sherlock inspected it further. It was a surgical marker.

"Not John's. He'd have no reason to carry one."

"Could have been a previous passenger's?" Lestrade offered.

"Could have. I don't like 'could haves.' 'Could haves' aren't facts. Prints, Anderson, if you think you can do it without mucking it up."

Anderson held his tongue and allowed Sherlock to drop the marker into an evidence bag.

Sherlock continued searching. "A few coins. A Tesco match book. Dry cleaner's receipt. The usual detritus left by humanity. Nothing useful," he said, although how he knew that was beyond Lestrade's comprehension. Still, Anderson put each item in an evidence bag.

As Sherlock continued his search, Donovan began to check the crease between the seat cushions and the seat back. Sherlock frowned, then considered her again and nodded his approval.

More coins, a comb, and then…her hand hit upon something.

"Oi, what's this?" She held up a small stainless steel tray, about 12cm x 6cm.

Sherlock went very still. "Oh, God," he whispered.

Lestrade looked blank.

"Lestrade, don't you recognize it? You just saw one like it a few hours ago. For God's sake, Lestrade! Dr Levine's office. We saw one on her table that was almost identical. She used it for holding used acupuncture needles!"

Lestrade paled, and there were murmurs of curses all around. Sherlock paced, hurling invectives and everyone and everything in his line of sight before quieting enough to continue.

"Trevor's murder and John's abduction are undeniably connected," Sherlock verbalized it in case the NSY police were so oblivious that they did not see the obvious. He steepled his fingers in what normally would have been a calm, thoughtful pose, but the look behind his eyes was frantic.

"I need to find out who is doing this before…"

No one needed him to finish the sentence.

oOo

"Captain-?"

The distant voice was more of a command than a question, and John Watson, decorated soldier that he was, struggled to answer the call. He tried to pull himself out of the darkness of the anaesthetic haze. Someone was calling him again. He had one bastard of a headache which surged like a tidal wave when rough hands shook him by the shoulders. Finally, John stirred, his mind fighting for consciousness. It was like slogging through treacle.

"Captain Watson! Time to wake up now!" The voice shouted insistently.

He was disoriented, and the use of his army rank confused him. _How can it be?_ _I thought I was home. I'm still in Afghanistan?_ He wondered who was calling him so urgently.

"Bill? Captain Murray?"

The man slapped him across his face.

"Guess again, Doctor."

John grunted in surprise and pain. Too much to make sense of. His mind grappled, desperate for grounding. He was untethered, not knowing where he was. He recognized the far-too-familiar sensation of coming out of anaesthesia, but why—? He scanned his shoulder for the telltale burn of the bullet wound, but found no pain, just a familiar dull ache. Something else, then? His hands? His wrists hurt.

"I'm in Kandahar?"

"You tell me."

He gulped in some deep breaths, leaving more of the darkness was behind. When he opened his eyes he looked down at himself, a _frisson_ of fear rose along his spine when he saw that he was clothed only in his pants, with his hands, elbows, and hips bound by heavy tape to a chair, as were his thighs and feet. His decidedly unmilitary jumper, shirt, jacket and trousers were cast off on a chair across the room. Reflex took over and he pulled at his restraints, to no avail. He fought down a rising panic. London, then, he reasoned, only slightly relieved.

But who—? He looked at his captor. "I don't…"

The man before him chuckled. "Now you've gone and hurt my feelings. You don't recognize me?"

The veil was lifting now. John looked closely at the man. A tad taller than he, square jawed, pale, underweight, recently sick…

"I left that little impression on you?"

Oh, that voice! Awareness came back like a clap of thunder.

"Alec Loman?" John said, stiffening, a sickening feeling rising in his gut.

"You're not going to address me as 'Doctor'?

John's eyes narrowed. Dangerous territory, that. He wasn't going there.

John rolled his neck and shoulders, trying to make it look like he was working out the stiffness in his neck. It didn't fool Loman.

"Holmes isn't here." Loman's voice was ice.

John let out a slow a breath, clearly relieved. He'd gotten a decent look at the room, however. It was a small but completely outfitted surgery, with a small operating theatre. The faded corporate logos on the cabinets were beyond ironic.

"You look different," John said, trying to keep his voice steady. He noted with some satisfaction that Loman had a nasty bruise on his forehead from where John had head-butted him.

"Three years in an Afghan prison will do that to you."

John's chest tightened.

"But you? Got a nice cushy job. Though I never figured you for wanting the limelight. A blog? Really? And your address right there on the website. Shit, Watson, it was like an engraved invitation. Did you really think I wouldn't come after you?"

"Frankly, I didn't think you'd survive prison."

"I'm a survivor, John. That's what I do."

"You were sentenced to fifteen years. How the hell—?" He could feel his anger rising. The sight of this man, the memory of what he'd done, made John physically ill.

"Did you really think that hell-hole of a prison could hold me? I deal in currency, and there isn't anyplace on this planet that you can go without finding someone willing to take a bribe."

"You didn't deal in currency," John spat out, his contempt for this man unabated after three years. "You dealt in lives." He forced himself to calm: it would do him no good to induce more anger in the man. "So how many people—soldiers, civilians—do you think died because they couldn't get the meds they needed? The meds you stole?"

"Shit, Watson, you're still wearing your emotions on your sleeve… Black marketing of materiel has been around since the first cavemen went to war."

"Materiel?"

"Don't be naïve. Just because the trial was about medical supplies, surely you don't think I confined myself to just that? I never hid the fact that I became a doctor for the money. But I was good at it. I was a good surgeon."

"You had good technique, but you were never a good doctor. You never gave a damn about your patients."

"Never said I did... Speaking of surgical technique…"

Loman walked a few feet away to a nearby table. John turned his head to follow him. There was a short intake of breath as John saw the blue, sterile drapes covering the table.

Loman heard it and grinned.

"No fooling you, eh?"

Very slowly, like a magician about to perform a trick, he picked up the corner of one of the drapes. John swallowed hard but kept his face neutral. Loman whipped the drape away. John's worse fears were confirmed when he saw three surgical blades—a #10, #15, a monster #22, and one double-edged lancet. Loman deliberately blocked his line of site and when he turned, he had a #10 scalpel in his hand, and walked oh so slowly back toward John, deliberately turning his hand so the light would reflect off the blade.

John took a deep breath against the rising dread.

"Now if I wanted instant gratification, I would cut you starting here... " He held the knife over John's left upper arm. "Slowly. Starting with some veins, then—assuming you had any blood still left in you—the arteries."

The good doctor felt his heart rate climb.

"Lucky for you, I'm a patient man."

"Alec—."

There was a sudden movement of the blade as Loman expertly nicked the muscle a centimeter from the cephalic vein. John gasped in surprise. Blood seeped down John's arm. It was a precision cut, only five millimeters or so deep, intended to induce fear more than injury.

"Hmmm. Well, maybe _patient_ isn't quite the right word. Let's see, what is? _Vindictive_?

Veins and arteries—you'd bleed out far too fast, Captain. We've just gotten back together. Can't have the reunion end that quickly… You took away my ability to work as a surgeon—at least in legitimate circles."

"Yeah, well, you're a bit late on that one. The war already made sure I would never be a surgeon again."

"Good. One thing to cross off the list. Three years of malnourishment, threats of execution, beatings. Pain for pain, loss for loss, Watson, starting with your freedom."

John took a shallow breath and said slowly, "You can't seriously think that you can hold me here for three years?"

"Hardly. It'll just seem like it."

oOo

**Author's notes. In a tip of the hat to my friend and brilliant writer, the late Elleston Trevor: OC's (with the exception of Dr Levine) are named after him and the characters in his "Quiller" spy novels which he wrote under the pseudonym Adam Hall.**


	6. Chapter 6 - The Connection

**Warnings this chapter: angst; whumpage; a touch of BAMF; abuse of medical technique and ethics.**

CHAPTER 6

THE CONNECTION

The mobile phone lay on the table before Sherlock, next to the evidence bag. Sherlock held the print dusting kit and tried to focus. Impatient with his own show of emotions, he put the brush down and tried again to clear his mind. It didn't work. All he could think of was the first time he'd held John's mobile. It meant nothing to him then. Now it said acceptance, it said loyalty, it said _friend. _ He thought back to their first meeting and his initial smug deduction; Sherlock was fooling himself when he thought he knew John Watson.

Certainly he knew _about_ him. Who John Watson _was_ was another matter entirely. Who was this man who had gotten under his skin and into his conscience and had so substantially changed him?

Certainly he knew that the man with the pedestrian need to eat regular meals and to sleep regular hours was the same man whose hand was as steady holding a haemostat as it was a Browning; who could lambast Sherlock for his lack of manners and his blatant insensitivity, but who was loyal beyond reason when they were but relative strangers; who had an insatiable appetite for danger, yet could giggled like a schoolgirl at the most inappropriate times.

For as much as he had grown to know John Watson, he couldn't help but suspect—to know—that there was so much more to this man, that there was yet so much to discover about this John Watson, he of the quick smile, the quick temper, and the tender heart. Oh yes, he had much more to learn about this John Watson. And he was determined not to be deprived of it.

oOo

The London office of the multinational conglomerate BurtonHall was, to put it mildly, expansive. It was too slick, too modern, too sterile, with just a patina of warmth to pretend it cared about anything but itself.

Lestrade was introducing Sherlock and himself to the Human Resources Senior Vice President. Sherlock sized her up in a glance: 45, too-short hair, boring suit, bi-sexual, not in a committed relationship, two cats.

"Ms Croder," Lestrade began.

"Elizabeth, please," she said, stepping closer to him than necessary, and holding her gaze too long on Lestrade's lips, her hand too long is his.

Sherlock's lips curled fractionally. Lestrade might be an idiot but he wasn't blind. Lestrade diplomatically extricated his hand from hers, stayed calm and carried on.

"Ms Croder," Lestrade continued, "We're here about the death of Margaret Trevor."

Croder's demeanour changed immediately. She grew serious, legitimately saddened by her colleague's death.

"What was her position with BurtonHall?" Lestrade asked.

"Margaret was Senior Vice President of Supply Chain and Distribution. Why?"

"Not an insignificant role for a company the size of BurtonHall," Sherlock said.

"I mean, why are you here?" She was a woman used to stonewalling.

"I'm sure I don't have to tell you, Ms Croder, that they'll be an Inquest. The law requires it in any sudden death," Lestrade said, his voice carrying the weight of authority.

"It was an asthma attack, surely?"

"She was murdered," Sherlock said too bluntly.

Croder paled and started to shake.

Lestrade shot Sherlock an exasperated look. "My apologies. Mr Holmes can be short on manners, Ms Croder, but he's essentially correct. We have every reason to think Ms Trevor was murdered."

"Who would—?"

Sherlock sighed. "That is what we are trying to ascertain," he said impatiently.

She nodded, pulling herself together faster than either man would have expected.

"Her file. Her full personnel file," Sherlock demanded.

"That's confidential. I won't—"

"Her file. Now."

Lestrade cleared this throat.

Sherlock shut up.

Lestrade took a half-step closer to her and turned on the charm. "You really aren't going to make me go through all that paperwork and red tape to get something you know the Yard's entitled to. Are you?"

She hesitated. Sherlock played his trump card.

"Ms Croder, a man's life is at stake," Sherlock added with urgency.

That was a game-changer. She immediately handed over the file and her manner changed.

"How can I help?" she said.

As Sherlock leafed through her file, Lestrade tossed questions at Croder. "Was there anything in her background," Lestrade asked, "that would make you think her life was in danger? Anything in her personal relationship that you're aware of?"

"No. No problems at the office. She isn't…wasn't dating that I know of, not since her husband's death. She'd been with us for 15 years, rose quickly and didn't make enemies doing it. She worked at various branches, most recently here at headquarters."

Glancing at the file, Sherlock launched into one of his blisteringly fast speeches. "She and John were roughly the same age, but did they ever attend the same schools? No, not at any level. Did they ever work together or even work at the same place of business? No, not even in the same field. Did she ever work with the police or in investigative work? No. Not her area. Did they ever live near each other? Probably not, bears investigation. Perhaps they dated? No. John would have remembered her. Friend of a friend? Also a long shot. Let me see her office."

"What—?" Ms Croder said, her mouth agape.

"Her office. I need to see her office."

"Like the man said," and Lestrade gestured to the doorway.

A few minutes later, they had walked down the long corridor and entered Margaret Trevor's pristine office. It was just as obsessively neat as her flat. Sherlock walked to her desk and opened the top drawers, finding exactly what he expected.

"Inhaler. No asthmatic would be without one at every place they frequented."

"No one could track inventory the way Margaret could," Croder said. "Like a hawk about every detail. She knew when things were where they were supposed to be, and she knew when things went missing."

"BurtonHall has its fingers into everything. What kind of inventory was she responsible for?" Sherlock asked.

"Companies in every field you can imagine contract with us. You name it, we've probably done it. Office supplies, security—uniforms, I.T. software, hardware, etc., weapons, medical supplies—."

"Hold on!" Lestrade said, as he exchanged looks with Sherlock. "Medical supplies?"

"Bandages, syringes, pharmaceuticals—."

"Has St. Bart's ever been a client?" Sherlock asked, cutting her off.

"Never."

"There's a connection. There's has to be a connection! What is it?"

Lestrade walked to door. "We'll need to take her file. Go over it paragraph by paragraph. We'll find the connection, Sherlock."

Sherlock took a step toward Lestrade when something on the windowsill caught his eye. It was a coffee mug, its coloured logo half turned away. He walked back and picked it up. A simple square, bisected into triangles, blue on the top, yellow on the bottom.

"I've seen this somewhere before. In John's room, before—."

"I—" Ms Croder started.

"Not now!" Sherlock said, as he raised his hands, palms out, shoulder high, and closed his eyes.

"Aww," Lestrade groaned. "Mind palace. Not to worry. It's just something he does," Lestrade said with a shrug. "He needs quiet."

"But—"

"Shut up," Sherlock snapped.

Ms Croder didn't become a Senior Vice President without having a pair of figurative _cojones_. It was hardly politically correct, especially for a Human Resources person, but—

She shouted, "Hey!" and smacked Sherlock on the arm.

Lestrade flinched. Stunned, Sherlock's eyes flew open.

"You struck me," Sherlock said, eyebrows high.

"I know what the logo is," she said simply.

Now she had their attention.

"It's the logo of the Royal Logistics Corps, the RLC. For five years, Margaret was assigned to our office in Afghanistan."

OoO

Most of the bleeding had stopped, but some blood was still dripping down his arm. John looked around the room again, noting the equipment, too expensive to have been left behind. Obviously stolen, then, and used to refit an old BurtonHall infirmary into Loman's personal underground clinic.

To John's left, Loman was focused on a page of a textbook propped up on the table. John couldn't see it clearly. He was more concerned with what was under the surgical drape.

"Curious? That's one of your core traits, isn't it, Watson. Curiosity. You couldn't keep your nose out of my business."

With a flourish, Loman removed the drape. John's breath stuttered. There on the table was a line of acupuncture needles, ranging in size from 13mm to a horrifying 125mm. At least they were sterile, John noted absently.

"I got my hands on Thiopental and Fentanyl, didn't I? If I can get a hold of Class A drugs without breaking a sweat, well…do you really think acupuncture needles would be a challenge?

"_You? _You killed Margaret Trevor? Why—?"

"You didn't recognize her, did you?" The bastard actually chuckled. "You might remember her under her maiden name. Margaret Tilson."

_Oh, Christ. _

Of course! They'd never met; witnesses at the trial were restricted from speaking with each other. But John had seen her as she went into court. Three years ago at the trial, her hair was much shorter and lighter, and she'd weighed a bit more.

"It was her testimony that sealed the case against you."

"No," Loman said menacingly, picking up a needle. "Your testimony did that."

oOo

Back in her office, Ms Croder she paged through Margaret Trevor's rather large file until she found the section in question.

"Was there anything particularly unusual about her posting in Afghanistan?"

"You bet your arse there was."

"You don't talk like an H.R. person."

"You don't talk like a cop."

"I'm not a cop," Sherlock huffed in indignation. "I'm a Consulting Detective."

"We are a CSO—Contractor Support to Operations—to the Army in Afghanistan. Three years ago, Margaret testified against someone on trial for stealing medical supplies and selling them. Not just our supplies. Any he could lay his hands on, including from the locals. That's why he had an Afghan civilian trial. They had first rights, but there are still charges pending against him here."

Sherlock took the file from her and began reading. "Alex Loman. _M.D._?"

Lestrade was outraged. "He was doctor! That's disgusting."

"I did his initial interview four years ago. Good credentials but an arrogant son of a bitch. He thought he'd never get caught. I thought he'd never get out."

oOo

Sherlock's first call was to his brother.

"I have no news yet about John, Sherlock. We are exhausting every—"

"I need John's full military record," Sherlock interrupted.

Mycroft frowned. He didn't like where this was going, and he liked it less after Sherlock briefed him on what they'd discovered.

"I've had John's file for some time."

There was the slightest pause before Sherlock worked it out.

"Meaning, from the day he and I met," Sherlock inferred.

"Of course."

"You've read it."

"Of course."

"The information about the trial is there? John's never mentioned it."

"I dare say there is probably a lot about Afghanistan that John has never mentioned. In any case, it wasn't relevant to his civilian life…until now."

"I'll need the file on the trial itself."

"Pulling it up now…"

"There may be other witnesses who are in jeopardy."

"Oh, dear," Mycroft exhaled with a sighed as he skimmed the file. "There was only one other prosecution witness, a local Afghan civilian who was a minor participant in the crimes. He cut a deal so he wouldn't be charged and testified against Loman. He was found dead two months ago, shortly after we estimate Loman escaped."

oOo

John was soaked in sweat, quivering, his face a mask of grim determination, blue eyes glazed with pain that burned along neural pathways like fire.

One needle, about 25mm long, protruded from each of John's wrists. More specifically, from the ulnar nerves in John's wrists. Needles were also inserted deeply into the tender webbing of each hand. Another, slightly longer, thicker needle protruded from his right shoulder. A similar needle was stuck in the scar tissue of John's left shoulder; it had bent almost to the point of breaking against the thickened tissue.

Loman talked casually as he referenced the acupuncture textbook.

"The black market for drugs—illegal or medical—is huge. Skim a bit here, a bit there. Not so easy if you're with the RAMC. Why do you think I went there as a civilian contractor? ISAF, companies like Triple Canopy, Dyncorp—"

"I don't care who you worked for," John panted through the pain.

Loman patted his pocket. "I seem to have forgotten my surgical marker. A pen will do, don't you think? The book says that placement of the needles has to be precise to ensure avoiding the nerve. Surely, one doctor to another, you can appreciate the effort to be precise. Of course, I am using thicker and longer needles and inserting them deeper than recommended."

Loman knew full well that he was using John's medical knowledge against him in a cruel psychological attack. John squirmed against the restraints as Loman approached him, but it only made the pain worse. His mouth was drawn into a thin line.

"Now, Watson, I told you that the needles hurt more if you move. You never were good at listening."

Loman turned to Egerton.

"Slap a plaster on his arm, will you? The drip is starting to annoy me."

Egergon's face screwed up in distaste.

"You're a bit of an odd one, Phil. How is it that you can beat crap out of someone, but you get queasy with anything medical?"

"I had six brothers. Whumping people comes naturally to me. It feels good. Fixin' them up feels...weird."

Loman gave him a look. Egerton did as he was told and put a plaster on John's arm.

Loman palpated John's solar plexus until it met the base of the breastbone, then touched the pen to the spot. John tensed with the knowledge of the nerve located there, in anticipation of the pain. Loman noticed the reaction and smiled. He placed another mark at the base of John's neck. John closed his eyes against the mental image it invoked.

"We'll leave your legs until later, I think. For now, one more for good measure." Loman put his hand under John's chin, exposing more of the neck, and quickly put another ink mark there.

Loman took a detour to the table and selected a needle, walking back slowly towards John. He considered him for a moment, letting his anger build.

"Hold his head," he told Egerton.

John thrashed, desperate to keep Egerton's hands off him. The movement set off a new wave of pain in the other needles' locations. The man was powerful, and he put one massive hand under John's chin and one on his forehead to wrench his head to the side. The good doctor threw his head back with all the force he could muster, and the man's hand came free of his chin. John's lunged forward and he bit the man—deeply—on the forearm.

The man screamed.

John had just finished spitting the blood out of his mouth when Egerton swung and connected with a solid right to his head. John was unconscious before his head had fully whipped to the side, then fallen heavily to his chest.

"Phil! Damn it to hell!"

"The son of a bitch bit me."

"I told you I need him awake!"

"He bit me!"

"Go wash up. You're going to need to get a tetanus shot and antibiotics, not to mention some self control. You hurt him again, and you're out. Do you understand?"

"But _you're_ hurting him."

"Do you understand?"

Egerton had no doubt that he could easily overpower Loman. He was also all too aware that Loman could hurt him in ways he never imagined. "Okay. Okay."

_It doesn't hurt if he's not conscious. And by God he's going to feel every moment of what I am going to do to him._

oOo

Lestrade and Sherlock rode back to NSY in silence. Sherlock withdrew into himself. With John's sense of honour, he could imagine his fury at the trial, and now it appeared that the fury of revenge was being directed back at him. Facts, suppositions, and associations started to coalesce at light speed in Sherlock mind as he connected the dots. He caught Lestrade by the arm.

"If he killed her on Saturday, she most likely wouldn't have been missed until Monday when she didn't show up for work. Mrs Trevor would have recognized Loman, so he must have drugged her—paralytic or anaesthetic—or there would have been evidence of a struggle. Paralytic would have required breathing apparatus, so anaesthetic. Oh, brilliant! She's been dead between 24-30 hours, could have used Ketamine, can be intramuscular but its half-life is too long, so probably used Thiopentol, half life of 11.5-26 hours works out perfectly because it has, indeed, been 30 hours since her death, and the drug will be undetectable in autopsy. She did not cancel her acupuncture appointment, Loman did. Texted it, probably after he killed her. Check her mobile for prints."

Lestrade nodded, slack-jawed once again by the fireworks display of the workings of Sherlock's mind despite the stress of the jeopardy John was in.

oOo

When John came to, his forehead was taped to the high-backed chair. There would not be a replay of the previous incident. He lowered his eyes as far as he could, and saw that not only were the needles still in place, but he could see additional ink marks on his legs, and thought that there were probably others where he could not see. He discovered if he held absolutely still, the needles' pain was reduced to a bone-deep throb. He held his silence until the brain fog cleared. The silence in his head was replaced by one desperate word: _Sherlock._

Loman watched him with apparent indifference.

"How the hell did you get out of Afghanistan and back into London?" John said finally.

"There's no changing you. You'll die asking questions… That was the easiest part. When you've got a loadmaster in your back pocket, getting a hop out of the country is a no-brainer."

"A loadmaster, of course! With you name conveniently left off the manifest."

No operation worked efficiently without a good loadmaster who knew precisely how to load a plane with people and cargo, distributing the weight correctly, putting the most vitally needed materiel last in/out first. And hiding cargo. John thought for a moment, then made the logical leap. "The loadmaster, he was more than that, wasn't he? He made sure you got your supply of merchandise, too."

"Loadmaster?" Loman said, mockingly. "Loadmasters. One's never enough. War makes for a thriving business."

"There's nothing that makes me want to puke more than a rogue doctor. Every time you sold British medical supplies to the black market, you deprived our soldiers of the meds they needed."

"You made that perfectly clear at the trial, so spare me the lecture."

"Soldiers died! Good men and women died because they couldn't get the meds they needed. Kids too young to understand what the fuck they were even fighting for. They _died_. In my arms. In pain."

"Watson, you are equal parts bad ass and bleeding heart, and I don't know which one pisses me off more."

Loman's eyes fell to John's shoulder. He roughly pulled out the bent needle. John groaned.

Legitimate acupuncturists will often manipulate the top of a needle by rotating it to stimulate its effectiveness. When Loman took a new needle and inserted it into the same spot on John's left shoulder, he twisted it with one purpose—to increase the pain. Some kind of animal sound came from John's throat but he held back a scream.

Loman twisted each of the needles in turn.

oOo

**Author's Notes: The Royal Logistics Corps, ISAF, Triple Canopy, and Dyncorp and CSO's are real. BurtonHall is fictitious, but bonus points to anyone who realized the name is a play on Halliburton. My thanks to my friend Jocelyn W., former US Army, for sharing her expertise about loadmasters, manifests, hop flights, etc. **

**And yes, I did have acupuncture while on Prednisone, and yes, I had those nasty bruises in the webbing of my hands–and thus the idea for this story was born. **


	7. Chapter 7 - Schadenfreude

**Warnings this chapter: whumpage.**

CHAPTER 7

SCHADENFREUDE

Lestrade bristled when Mycroft "suggested" that they meet at his office, but relented immediately when he thought about John. After all, Mycroft did have access to certain information that the mere NSY did not. And there was that little crisis in Dubai that was keeping Mycroft close to his desk.

Sherlock, beyond agitated, paced the room like a caged tiger. He was somewhat mollified that Lestrade had encouraging information from the evidence collected at the gymnasium.

"We recovered dozens of prints from that sodding chair, but—here's the good news—one matched the partial from the tie wrap. Lowlife minor criminal, name of Phil Egerton. No Afghan ties, but he matches the physical description of the bloke with Loman in the taxi. And…the prints on medical pen thing matched Loman."

"All three incidents are linked, brother. Since you have no ties to Loman or Afghanistan, you were apparently targeted only to get to John."

The softest of sighs escaped from Sherlock, while Lestrade nodded soberly.

"So, we are left with confirmation that Loman is back in country. Illegally, I might add. Loman has a valid passport—he is, after all, a British national—but there is no record of his re-entry under his own name. He didn't dare. He would have been arrested at the airport since there are still charges pending."

"Could have had help," Lestrade offered. "If he got out of prison twelve years early, he couldn't have done it alone. I'm guessing he had a network of connections, yeah? Maybe even someone at the Border Agency."

Mycroft spoke into his intercom.

"Anthea—"

"Yes, sir," she answered immediately.

"Find out who cleared one Dr. Alec Loman through customs—it may not have been under that name, but we have his photo and prints–and have that person picked up for questioning."

He clicked off.

"Well, that's something, at least?" Lestrade looked to Sherlock hopefully, but he remained silent. He and Mycroft exchanged glances.

"Sherlock," Mycroft said sternly, penetrating his armour.

"Yes, yes, listening. Decent information, but utterly useless if we do not know his whereabouts."

He grew thoughtful for a moment, then turned on his heels and quickly made for the door.

"Oi, where are you going?"

"Where you can't."

oOo

"Trevor was easier to get to than you," Loman drawled. "I followed her, and once I saw that she went to an acupuncturist, well… all I needed to do was get to her diary to see when her next appointment was. That's one of the things I keep Egerton around for. He's ace at housebreaking. And then I made up some cock-and-bull story, 'a fire at the clinic, so sorry, Mrs Trevor but Dr Shapiro asked if you would like me to make a house call on her behalf' and she's thrilled about the good customer service."

"The bitch recognized me right away, but luckily—well, it wasn't luck at all, it was part of the plan—I had a syringe. One needle mark lost among the acupuncture marks. It was so easy to make it look like a natural death. No ligature marks, no gag. Ever use Thiopental, Watson?"

John's face betrayed nothing of the truth he knew.

"You, on the other hand… You had quite the reputation as a marksman in the Army, yet you weren't armed."

"I don't carry a gun around like an extra dick."

"Perhaps you should. The streets aren't safe."

John had a sudden realization. "Sherlock. The gymnasium."

"Of course Sherlock, too. Took you long enough to work it out. Your brain has been muddled by the pain."

John found himself chuckling grimly.

"Something funny?"

"Sherlock was wrong. He _was_ a lure."

"Well, of course he was. Until someone interfered. No matter. Only delayed me by a day. I couldn't care less if anyone thinks your death is murder. After all, you work in a dangerous profession with a lot of enemies."

He walked across the room and brought the rolling cart with him.

"Those earlier needles were just a distraction, Watson," Loman said. "Here's where it starts to get interesting. Have you ever treated a patient with trigeminal neuralgia?"

_I am so fucked, _John thought, trying not to imagine the next round of pain, which was, frankly, unimaginable.

Loman must have seen the fear flash across John's face because nodded with satisfaction.

"You should listen to this, Phil. You might learn something…

Phil hovered closer like an over-eager student.

"Experts call it the most excruciating pain there is. Patients agree. I had such a patient once. The gentlest breeze across his cheek could trigger the most exquisite pain. He begged for death rather than face another episode. I wonder if John Watson will be any different."

"Jesus, you are one sick bastard."

"I may be, but I'm rich and free. And you're not."

Loman gave a jerk of his head to his right, and Egerton came forward.

John felt a smug satisfaction at the sight of the bandage on his arm. He cursed the man six ways from Sunday and fervently hoped that he got a massively resistant infection from the bite. If he got of out this—_when_ he got out of this, he corrected himself—the stray thought occurred that he would have to be tested for AIDS and hepatitis, and…

His thoughts were interrupted when Loman growled, "Hold him! And for Christ's sake, do it right this time."

Those two enormous hands were on him again, holding his head and jaw rock steady. John's head wouldn't budge; he was immobilized.

Loman approached, needle in hand. Using his left hand to palpate the area around the ink mark, his right hand pushed the needle into John's trigeminal nerve.

John gasped with the suddenness of a pain so horrific that it felt like being electrocuted. John screamed, pain whiting out his vision, overwhelming all other senses until nothing existed but the tortuous stimulation of a single nerve. He continued screaming, not even hearing himself, while his mind screamed out a desperate plea…

"_Sherlock!"_

oOo

Sherlock walked into the shadows of the Underground station. Two teenagers beckoned him closer, out of site of the CCTV cameras. The boy, barely 17, stood protectively next to the slightly younger girl. Their too-light jackets couldn't hide their chill.

Sherlock handed Paul several £50 notes. The teens' eyes widen.

"Mr Holmes, we couldn't," Linda said.

"This is more than—"

Sherlock held his hand out to halt their protests. "This is the most important information you will ever—." His voice caught.

The two teens hid their surprise at the unheard of show of emotion.

Sherlock cleared this throat. He spoke with intensity but without a shred of emotion. "I'm looking for a disgraced doctor named Loman. Recently back in the country. I need his alias, a street name, anything. He's working without a license, probably dealing with highly disreputable people who have the means to pay him, and pay him quite well."

Paul looked nervous. Linda looked terrified.

"Come on. You hear things. How would someone find a doctor who didn't ask questions, who was working illegally? Who would someone go to if they were shot and didn't want the police involved? If they broke an arm during a robbery and didn't want to go to A&E?"

"Mr Holmes, could be dangerous, givin' up a name like that. If the word got out—."

"You know me better than that."

The boy looked resolute as he handed the money back to Sherlock.

Sherlock ignored it. Fear had them immobilized. He had to hook them on an even stronger emotional level. Guilt.

"Who took care of you when you broke your hand, Paul? Linda, when you had pneumonia?

"Go on, you know! Dr Watson, your mate. We all like Dr Watson," Linda said.

"Yes, and Loman has taken him."

The teens were silent but outraged.

"Loman has already killed two people. And Dr Watson will be next. He may not have much time."

The young man squared his shoulder, and looked Sherlock steadily in the eye. "His street name's The Fixer."

"He has a small surgery, works out of an old abandoned building some big company owned," Linda added helpfully.

"The name of the company? Either of you! The name? Think!"

"I dunno!" the lad stuttered, a look of anxiety overtaking his face. "I don't remember."

"I've 'eard it on the news before," Linda said.

"Would you know it if you heard it?"

Linda nodded. "Think so."

"Was it BurtonHall?"

oOo

Mycroft and his younger brother strode quickly into the lobby of New Scotland Yard and toward the security screening area. Sherlock emptied his pockets and was gestured to come through the metal detector.

He froze.

"You don't!" Mycroft whispered.

"I do," was the quiet aside.

Through the mystery of the brothers' mental shorthand, Mycroft immediately grasped the situation. He _accidentally _bumped into Sherlock, covertly moving his hand under Sherlock's jacket and palming the Browning, putting it into his own suit pocket.

"One moment," Sherlock said to the officer. "A few things left in the pockets."

Mycroft stepped ahead and went through the detector, setting off every alarm known to Christendom. No fewer than five guns were trained on them.

Sherlock and Mycroft held their hands out wide.

"Oh, I do apologize. That would be mine," Mycroft said, oh so casually. "I.D. top left pocket."

He touched his lapel with two fingers.

"Don't move. I'll get it, sir," the police officer said.

Mycroft tilted his head in that way he had of stopping people dead in their tracks.

"I don't think so," he said, his voice icy with authority: no one touched Mycroft Holmes. He slowly moved his fingers to his pocket, took out his identification, and held it out for all to see.

It raised several eyebrows, but not as many as when Mycroft carefully removed the Browning from his pants pocket, its trigger guard held securely between his forefinger and thumb.

"So sorry, sir."

"Apologies, Mr Holmes."

"We didn't realize, sir."

Sherlock somehow kept his face neutral as they were escorted _around_ the security lines and into the corridor, apologies trailing behind them.

"What were you thinking?" Mycroft demanded when they reached the lift.

"I was thinking that my partner was kidnapped and that I should consider protecting myself!"

"Protect yourself or arm yourself with intent?"

Sherlock didn't reply.

oOo

"Well, this is a bit off pistel, eh?" Lestrade said.

Mycroft watched the information download on his computer. "The gall of using one of BurtonHall's own buildings."

"Clever," Sherlock nodded.

Lestrade read from another screen. "It's been on the market for over two years. Horrid part of town, not surprised. But, look here, tipped their hand—the place is using a lot of electricity and water for an empty building."

"Easy enough to tap into the electrical lines, open the main water line."

"And BurtonHall is so massive one hand doesn't know what the other is doing. It could take them months to realize someone's squatting," Mycroft said.

"I'll ready a team," Lestrade said.

"You can't. You only have hearsay and 'possibilities'. You don't have Reasonable Suspicion."

"Neither do you."

"True, but I don't need it."

"Sherlock—"

"He'll kill John if you go in there in force."

_If he isn't dead already, _Sherlock thought, then disregarded it. _It is imperative to think of this as a rescue mission, not a recovery mission_, Sherlock reminded himself, desperately but ineffectively trying to use pure reason.

Lestrade started to object, but Sherlock cut him off.

"It will take your people 70 seconds to gain entry. Mycroft's people, 30. It will take Loman 10 seconds to kill John."

No immediate counter-arguments were raised.

"Going out to think," he said, clicking his final 'k' in a habit Mycroft found particularly vexing. "Give me an hour, and we'll meet back here. Have a plan ready, or I _will_ go in alone."

Lestrade nodded.

An hour later, Sherlock hadn't returned.

Mycroft and Lestrade knew precisely what he'd done.

oOo

John's mind was drifting. That was a good thing. He could separate himself from the pain, dissociate, locking the pain into a corner of his brain where it couldn't hurt him. He'd done it before in Afghanistan when the pain in his shoulder wreaked havoc with his body and mind. He had to concentrate on not concentrating to make it happen.

He allowed himself to drift. He steadied his breathing as if preparing himself for sleep. He could feel his mind slip into the comfort of alpha waves, and waited. It didn't take long. Memories and images bubbled to the surface.

Breathlessly laughing in the hallway. God, it was the first time he'd laughed since his return to London. Then running, actually _running_ for the first time since the desert, following this manic, wild child with the brilliant brain that he'd just met. Sherlock was a madman, and infuriating, and exhilarating, and unequivocally unique. John was awed by his genius, upset by his rudeness, shocked by his insensitivity, and touched by his well-hidden vulnerability. No one could make him roll his eyes in frustration or make him laugh as much as this man named Sherlock Holmes who had somehow transformed him and brought him back to life.

He'd thought at first that there was so much in Sherlock's brain that it left no room in his heart. Yet he'd seen the man soften—no, that wasn't quite the word. The idea of a _softer_ Sherlock was ludicrous, an oxymoron. Sherlock's heart, whether by choice or in reaction to calls of _Freak _and other mistreatment, had become encased in permafrost. But somehow their partnership, their friendship, had caused the permafrost to thaw just enough to crack open Sherlock's heart, to allow part of himself out and welcome John in…

And in doing so, holding up a mirror to John, each changing the other's reflection.

He knew that despite the insanity of their lives, he would follow this idiot, this amazing Sherlock Holmes, to the ends of the earth. And that he would spend the rest of his life being amazed.

Pain broke through, rousing him again. God, he wanted to sleep. He was beyond thirsty, the sweat and shaking draining precious hydration from his body. Loman frowned as he saw a shiver shake John's frame. He felt John's face; it was cold and diaphoretic. He flashed his pen light in each eye. Pupils were dilated, obscuring most of the blue iris.

"Are you getting shocky, Watson?"

"Sod off." John's voice was raspy and weak.

"Phil, the real science here is pushing the human body just to the edge, then pulling back. Did you know that pain alone can cause shock? It's complicated, but as you can see from the Captain's state, he's losing fluids, causing a reduction in volume…well, no need to go into all of that. Enough pain can render a person unconscious, and if unconscious they can't feel anything, and where's the fun in that? Watson has just about reached that point, so it's time to ease up, let his body rest for a while before continuing… Besides, I'm starving."

Loman crossed the room and brought back an I.V. pole and the cart.

"Phil, quiz time."

"What?"

"If you're going to help me with my endeavours, you're going to have to remember the basics. Treatment for shock?"

"Uh…What's that phrase? Something about temperature. Oh, right…'Preserve body temperature'."

"Excellent. Blanket?"

Phil brought over one of the blankets from the litter. Loman took it and draped it over John's legs, then began prepping John's arm.

"Why the hell are you giving him a blanket?" Egerton said.

Loman just smiled.

"Watson, how about a little NS for incipient shock?"

He hung the bag of normal saline on the pole.

"Of course, labels can sometimes be switched. You can never be too sure what's dripping into your arm, can you? Medical mistakes happen all the time." He tsked. "So if there's a little iatrogenic damage done here…well, sue me."

John knew Loman was messing with his head, but he was lightheaded and shaking and he couldn't think of a retort, but he couldn't help tensing as Loman slid the large 18 gauge needle into his arm. John was fighting just to stay conscious. He barely heard the conversation that followed.

Phil was confused. "What the hell are you doing, Alec?" he asked, as Loman started the drip. "Are you trying to help him?"

"Hell, no. I'm trying to prolong this as long as possible."

oOo


	8. Chapter 8 - Confrontation (revised)

**To those who have already finished reading this, I apologize for the revision. Something was bugging me and it suddenly occurred to me what it was. The only change is in the final few paragraphs before the Coda.**

**Warnings this chapter: Hurt/Comfort; angst; altered state; detailed anatomical description; whumpage; BAMF all around.**

CHAPTER 8

CONFRONTATION

It was a depressed part of London. Formerly a thriving industrial centre, it was now a complex maze of alleys, driveways, buildings barely occupied, abandoned, or vandalised, with broken windows, peeling paint, dirty alleys, and faded dreams.

It took a £10 note for the cabbie to even agree to drive there. Now, Sherlock had the taxi proceed, headlights out, to the deserted structure two buildings away from the BurtonHall address. He handed the cabbie the fare, plus a £20 note, a business card, and instructions. "Stay here. We'll need a return trip. If I'm not back in 20 minutes, call D.I. Lestrade. He'll know what to do."

Sherlock walked to the former BurtonHall building, a faded logo still visible on a sign. As would be expected, there were no signs of life from the security cameras which had long ago been disabled.

He circled the structure, doing a recce from a distance to assess its entrances and possible avenues of escape. All told, the one story brick building had three doorways. There was a narrow walkway in the back, and on either side, alleyways a car-width's wide, large enough only for a rusted-out rubbish skip, scattered debris, and whatever the harsh London winds chose to deposit there, and the larger street to the front.

There were lights coming from one room, while light leaked from beneath the doorway of another; the third was dark. A car was parked in front of the room that was lit. He moved closer to the car. For what it was worth, its profile matched the car that had been visible on the CCTV camera.

Sherlock had a dilemma. If John were injured, he might not be able to reach the taxi, and he did not trust the cabbie to stay where directed. If he disabled the car so that Loman and Egerton could not escape, he was also taking away a possible means of escape for John and himself. Reluctantly, he took a knife to each of the tyres, trusting that Mycroft or Lestrade would be sending backup and transport.

Even through the grime of the window, Sherlock could clearly see two figures in the room, along with a table, chairs, refrigerator, and microwave. Despite the chill, the window was slightly ajar. Moving with slow deliberation, he moved closer to the window, cocking his head so as to hear any sounds. One step closer and then he heard it—the voices of two men casually conversing. One of the two had distinctly bad manners as he chomped on his food and spoke with a full mouth.

He gave a wide berth to the window and door lest the sound of his footsteps carry, then he moved closer to the building again, proceeding cautiously around the corner and approaching the next door. This room was windowless, but light crept out from under the double-wide door. His breath caught when he noticed the faded yellow stripes and now-pale red cross stencilled into the tarmac. He was standing at an ambulance entrance.

An infirmary, then.

Sherlock closed his eyes against the image that had formed in his head.

He listened. He knew what he thought he heard, but he would not permit himself to confirm it.

He continued to the third door: no lights visible through the windows, no sounds from behind it. He picked the lock with ease and entered cautiously, taking time to let his eyes adjust to the dark. He was in a stock room of some sort, obviously abandoned, with some shelving still in place, boxes and other detritus scattered about. The consulting detective took out his torch, covering it with one hand to prevent its light from being seen anywhere but immediately before him. Its narrow beam allowed him to proceed more quickly without fear of tripping over unseen objects, and his unerring visual-spatial memory permitted him to navigate easily through the various aisles to move toward the interior corridor, thence to the door of the infirmary.

He put his hand on the storeroom doorknob and slowly turned it. It opened. The corridor was clear.

In two strides, he was at the infirmary door. There was no way to see inside, save opening the door. Definitely not safe. He put his ear to the door and listened. What he heard was almost enough to break him: muted cries of pain and a low, moaning keening.

_Alive!_ his mind whispered.

He was suddenly filled with a cold fury. Cerebral thinking yielded to primal instinct and his mind screamed, _Get him out of there now! _

He pulled the Browning from his waistband.

The knob moved silently in his hand as he cracked opened the door. A bit more. A bit more. He had a full view of the room now, and he took in everything in a glance.

John.

The chair, the medical cart, the instrument table, the I.V. pole.

John saw him immediately and was overwhelmed with relief as Sherlock came through the door and crossed quickly to him.

"John!" When Sherlock breathed his name, it sounded like a prayer.

He put the Browning back in his waistband, allowing his eyes to sweep across the needles, the tape, the I.V. He looked momentarily flustered, not knowing where to begin.

"My God, John! What do I—?"

John was fully conscious but in obvious physical distress, the pain evident in his eyes. He whispered through gritted teeth. "Jaw."

Sherlock hesitated. Putting a needle into himself had been easy. Taking one out of someone?

"How? Same angle as it went in?"

John blinked a yes.

"Trigeminal? It will hurt."

John nodded as much as the tape and pain would allow and immediately regretted it.

"Badly."

Another blink.

Sherlock clamped his hand over John's mouth, steadied himself, and gently pulled on the offending needle. Sherlock winced as John cried out, and he could feel him arch and shudder with the pain. Sherlock uncovered John's mouth.

John gasped. "The others. Hurry."

Working quickly, Sherlock removed the rest of the needles, tossing them aside. John deliberately did not stifle his moans, lest the sudden silence raise suspicions. When all the needles were out, John's relief was palpable. Sherlock cursed to himself as he saw the same pattern of bruising on John's hands as had been on Margaret Trevor's, as well as the widespread bruising around the other sites from the deliberate abuse of the needles. Finally, Sherlock cut the tape, freeing his arms, legs, and head, swathes of tape still clinging to John hair.

"Do the I.V. yourself?"

John shook his head. "Can't feel my arms."

Sherlock was alarmed. "Will it—?

"Dunno."

Sherlock's stomach clenched.

He removed the medical tape and the I.V., then gently folded John's arm up at the elbow and grabbed a plaster from the cart.

They spoke rapidly in hushed, urgent tones.

"Can you stand? Walk?"

John nodded. "Didn't get to my legs yet."

Sherlock helped him to his feet. He swayed momentarily but then was stable. Sherlock gently draped the blanket over his shoulders.

"Clothes?" John said, nodding to his things. Sherlock grabbed them and they rushed to the door, closing it softly, and moved into the temporary safety of the storeroom, locking the door behind them.

"You really need your clothes?" he asked rapid fire, as he helped John into his trousers. "If the stories are accurate, women on three continents, most of the RAMC, and I have seen you in your pants—."

"Cold. Git." It still hurt to move his mouth.

Sherlock guided his arms into his shirt, not bothering with the buttons. He tied the jumper around John's waist, draped his jacket and blanket over his shoulders, and guided his feet into his shoes, forgoing the socks.

"Let's move. Taxi. Two buildings east."

They were almost out the door when they heard the commotion and swearing from the infirmary.

Sherlock gently pushed John behind a row of shelves and boxes. "Stay down, stay hidden. I'll draw them away. Then make a run for the taxi."

John balked. "Together," he rasped, still barely able to move his jaw.

Surprising himself, Sherlock found his hand reaching out. He hesitated fractionally before cupping his hand gently on the side of John's head. "Not this time…"

John realized that in his present state, that he could actually be an impediment to Sherlock. He reluctantly yielded.

"You're the better shot," Sherlock said. "Can you handle this?" He held out the Browning. John tried to curl his fingers around it, but the gun fell. Sherlock caught it before it hit the ground.

John's head dipped and his lips thinned in frustration.

Sherlock put his mobile in John's jacket pocket. "Call Lestrade when you're clear, get to the cab, then swing around for me."

"Sherlock…" John's voice was thick with emotion, his gratitude more than evident. As they had done so often before, they locked eyes, and each gave the subtlest of nods.

And Sherlock was gone. He went out the storeroom door, leaving it ajar for John, and ran toward the back of the building. He heard the office door slam. Sherlock went down the alley and crossed behind the building in the narrow walkway, making as much noise as he could. It worked. Footsteps thundered on the far side of the building.

John made his move. He was out the door and running as best he could toward the taxi.

"Split up! He can't be alone." He heard Loman shout. "Circle around."

John was half-way to the taxi when he heard the first shot. He knew from the sound that it wasn't his Browning. The soldier in him instinctively sought cover and he flattened against the building, fingers splayed against the brick wall and he was bombarded with a sudden joy and agony as he realized that he had actually moved his arms, that he could feel the brick, the neurons in his hands and arms firing like electric shocks as sensation slowly crept back in, but _oh, good Christ it hurt, _it burned and stabbed and it was too much too soon and enough to blur his vision and his knees buckled and his breath caught and forebrain functioning went off-line and the scene tilted until he could force in a breath, breathe, breathe and make the spinning stop.

Awareness came back in time to realize that the cabbie had heard the shot, too, because, no fool he, there was a sudden firing of an engine and the screech of tyres spinning, headlights sweeping across the road as the cab sped off.

The grating of fabric on skin felt like barbed wire when he put his hand into his jacket pocket to retrieve the mobile, which he immediately dropped. It took two tries but he finally picked up the mobile, and gingerly touched the keypad, which sent another jolt through the nerve from the wrist up his arm. He touched the speed dial for Lestrade, whose mobile answered on the first ring.

"Sherlock, you arse!"

"It's John. Need some help here. Send back up to—"

"We know where you are. You're in the middle of bleeding nowhere. We're already rolling."

"Sherlock?"

"I don't know," John said.

With that, there were two more gun shots.

"Greg?"

"Heard it. Stay put. Almost there. "

John disconnected. Stay put? Not bloody likely. He let the blanket fall, and with more than a little effort and pain, he struggled into his jacket and ran back toward the BurtonHall building.

oOo

Sherlock had led the men toward the west, weaving up and down the alleys, trying unsuccessfully to find an open door, and not having the time to pick any lock. He turned a corner and felt the rush of a bullet, then was peppered with brick fragments from the shot that Egerton had fired. He was royally offended when he saw a hole in his scarf.

He dodged back, saw Egerton's shadow and returned fire, using the moment to round the corner and duck behind the skip for cover. For a large man, Egerton was fast. He quickly crossed the width of the alley. They were close enough to hear each other's heavy breaths. It was a momentary stand-off, each having to dip their considerable heights to use the skip for cover or retreat, neither being able to break cover without risking gunfire from the other. Sherlock hunched down, took several steps back, then charged forward, barrelling into the skip, sending it crashing into Egerton, who fell backward, his gun skittering on the ground, finally disappearing under the skip.

Sherlock heard the gun fall, heard the man fall heavily, heard his hands scrabbling on the ground. He came round the other side of the skip, wary, pistol at the ready. Egerton had made it to his knees and came up swinging a length of pipe with astonishing force, catching Sherlock on the underside of his gun hand.

Sherlock heard the unmistakable sound of bone fracturing.

oOo

Shirt still unbuttoned, John shivered in the chill and listened intently, desperate for additional information. He moved as silently as he could, checking around the corner of each alley he approached. He could hear sounds of a scuffle, but the sounds echoed through the maze of alleyways and he couldn't pinpoint the source.

He heard a car alarm being disarmed, followed by someone slamming a car door closed, then Loman's cursing and more running footsteps.

oOo

The Browning lay in the shadows not far from Sherlock's feet, but it was unreachable. Egerton smiled. Sherlock had no where to go.

The man came at him fast. Sherlock, his right arm hanging uselessly at his side, dodged, the pipe merely grazing his left shoulder. Sherlock needed to close the distance—the length of the pipe gave Egerton a tactical advantage.

Sherlock darted forward and it caught Egerton by surprise, the detective unfurling a front rising kick that caught the man, who had both hands on the pipe at shoulder length, unable to block the kick, which landed solidly against the man's groin. Egerton huffed out in pain and doubled over, the pipe falling and rolling away. Sherlock followed up with a knife hand to the man's throat which knocked him to his knees. A roundhouse kick to the head finished the job.

oOo

Six alleys and several walkways later, John carefully rounded another corner and saw Sherlock sitting calmly on the ground, back propped up against a brick wall. Egerton lay on the ground a few meters away. John quickly checked Egerton for a pulse and found one, weak and thready.

Sherlock held one arm in the other and was staring intently at it.

"Sherlock!"

He was unresponsive.

John moved quickly to his side. He fumbled in his pocket for the small torch, the scrape of fabric against skin making him moan. He shone the torch at Sherlock's face and saw immediately that he was ashen from shock, face glistening in sweat, breathing rapid and shallow, and shivering. He had somehow, for some reason, shrugged out of his coat, which lay crumpled behind him.

_Oh!_

Sherlock was cradling his right arm in his left, staring in rapt fascination at the end of the splintered bone that was protruding from his lower arm.

"Mother of God," John hissed. An open fracture, in a filthy alley, caused by what?—the bloodied, rusted piece of pipe that lay near Egerton's feet.

Sherlock's head was cocked slightly to the side, allowing the detective a more head-on angle of the torn flesh and bone. Sherlock stared at the ragged edges of the bone, clearly mesmerized by the wound and the blood dripping onto his suit and shirt. He was unaware of John's presence at his side.

"Sherlock, let me—"

"I can see the osseous tissue!" Sherlock breathed, awed by the sight. "The texture is…amazing! Nothing at all like cadaver tissue. How did I not know that? And I can see all the layers of the skin!"

_Altered state._ _Bloody hell. _John reached out and, despite the pain of the contact, firmly guided Sherlock's chin in his direction, forcing him to break eye contact with the broken bone.

Sherlock whispered. "Look at the splintering pattern of the bone. It's remarkable. Remarkable." There was still no recognition in those eyes.

"Sherlock, focus. Are you with me?" he said, levelling the torch at the wound, which was bleeding freely, but thankfully the bone had missed severing the vein by mere centimeters. Truth be told, John was less concerned about the amount of blood loss at this point than he was about infection and possible nerve damage. A fleeting image of a violin appeared in his mind before he forced it away.

Sherlock's eyes sought out the edges of the bone again. Not good. John turned Sherlock's

head back to his face again. John lightly slapped his face. Sherlock startled, but did not otherwise respond.

"Sherlock! I'm hurt. I need you!" he said urgently, forcing him to make eye contact.

That did it. The detective's eyes steadied on John's.

"John?"

Sherlock slammed back into awareness, and became fully reoriented to his surroundings, realising that the broken bone, blood, and flesh he'd been looking at were his own. The force of the pain hit full-on.

"Oh, God!"

He gagged as his stomach lurched, and he turned just in time before he was ingloriously but not unexpectedly sick.

John gave Sherlock a moment, then briefed him. "Egerton's down, Loman's still out there. Maybe. Or maybe he took off."

John retrieved the pocket square from Sherlock's suit.

"Utility knife?"

There was no response. "Sherlock! Where's your utility knife?"

John knew perfectly well where the knife was; he needed Sherlock to answer.

"Back right pocket." His voice was slurry.

"John, he shot my scarf."

Sherlock sounded so pathetic, John didn't know whether to laugh or cry. "It's okay. We'll fix it... Lean forward just a tad."

Sherlock complied with a hiss of pain. John reached around and retrieved it, using it to cut the sleeve off Sherlock's suit.

"You've got an open fracture. Got to protect the denuded bone, keep it from getting any more contaminated than it already is."

The doctor made a triangle of the pocket square and laid it carefully over the splintered bone. They both forced back cries when John knotted the cloth lightly under his arm below the fracture. He could hardly make a proper fist, and he'd have used his teeth to pull the knot tight but his jaw hurt even more than his arms. John held the knife with difficulty but he cut two strips of cloth from Sherlock's shirt.

Too dangerous to move him without stabilising the arm; could risk nerve damage. He needed a splint. Where—? He kicked a roughly 35cm x 10cm piece of wood from the dilapidated fence and the end of the alley, and used the suit sleeve as…well, a sleeve. He gently guided Sherlock's arm into it.

"Hang on. This is going to hurt like a right bastard, but not as much as when you try to move."

Sherlock cried out when John tied the first strip below the fracture, somehow managing to simply grit his teeth and moan with the second tie near his elbow. It reached deep into John's soul but he offered only a quiet, professional, "Sorry. Almost done, I promise."

Grunting through his pain, the doctor went back to the prone body of the attacker and unceremoniously used the knife to rip open the man's shirt and striped him of it. John reached gingerly into his coat pocket—every sensation, every touch still generated pain along the abused nerve paths, but it was lessening minute by minute. He extracted several tie wraps from his jacket pocket and quickly secured the man, moans escaping John's throat as he pull them taut, all the while wondering what his life had come to that he, a physician, should be carrying tie wraps as casually as he carried his Oyster card.

John used the shirt to cobble together a makeshift sling and swathe. He gently coaxed Sherlock's back from the wall and wrapped it around the gangly detective, tying it with the sleeves.

If Loman had left the area, John thought, they might make it back to the infirmary until an ambulance arrived. They'd have painkillers, proper bandages. And, of course, I.V.'s. If he could stop Sherlock from slipping further into shock…

John reached behind Sherlock and tugged his coat up around his shoulders, then, despite the fireworks it set off along the nerves, he put pressure on the brachial artery in Sherlock's upper arm to staunch the bleeding.

"Sherlock, we have to get out of here. Hold onto your arm as best you can. I'll help you stand."

"I don't think so," Loman said from behind him.

John closed his eyes and his shoulders sagged. They'd been _so_ close.

"Stand up, Watson, but don't turn around."

John complied, his mind racing, trying to determine if Loman might be armed. He didn't remember him having any firearms training, but…

"Move away from him," he said, in that annoyingly blythe tone that John had disliked in Afghanistan, and now loathed.

John didn't move.

Loman lashed out with his hand which was now holding the 22mm scalpel that he'd quietly retrieved from the infirmary. The bastard went straight for John's left arm, knowing that it was his dominant side, and sliced a deep cut through the fabric of his jacket and into his arm, then pushed him from behind. John fell into the wall, his arms not strong enough to stop the impact.

From behind him, John could hear Sherlock trying to get to his feet.

"Sherlock, don't," John urged.

"Together, John."

"Not this time."

John turned to face Loman. "You forget. I wasn't just a doctor. I was a soldier."

"As you say, John," Loman sneered.

"You don't get to call me that! It's Captain Watson…What are you going to do now, Loman? There's no-one to bribe. No-one's got your back."

Loman pushed down on Sherlock's shoulder, forcing him from his knees back to the ground. Sherlock moaned softly.

John's face was steel.

"You're a wreck, Watson. Defenceless. Hardly the most intimidating sight. And neither is your famous Sherlock Holmes."

He held the scalpel near Sherlock's carotid artery. Aside from his shivering, Sherlock didn't move and John could see that he had no intention–and probably no ability–of doing so.

"Back inside. We're not finished here."

John didn't flinch.

_Where the hell was Lestrade?_ John thought. It was too risky to wait, too risky to move, but there weren't any other options.

Loman thinks the Captain is not a threat without his Browning. He is wrong. Dead wrong.

Captain John Watson. M.D.'s arms may not have been up to snuff, but his legs were just fine, thank you.

John pushed off the wall and kicked, aiming for his scalpel hand but connecting instead with Loman's solar plexus. Off-balanced, Loman's hand fell away from Sherlock's neck. Sherlock kicked out with his foot smashing it into Loman's knee. John and Sherlock had each had cried out in pain, the shouts unintentionally adding the same shock value as a martial arts kiai.

John caught a glint of light hitting his Browning where it lay a meter or so away. He lunged forward, and kicked it toward Sherlock, who picked it up with his left hand.

John was down. He'd waivered, the blood loss beginning to mount, and fell to one knee.

Loman was gripping his own knee in pain but the obsessed man just would not give up. Still holding the scalpel, his eyes blazing with hate, charged at John. Sherlock aimed, trying desperately to steady his badly shaking hand; he knew he'd only get one chance. Before he could fire, the rogue doctor's knee gave way and he fell heavily to the ground a mere meter from John's back.

Loman didn't move.

The tableau was frozen in time for several seconds. John was the first to rouse himself. He struggled to his feet and carefully approached Loman, kicking softly at his back, and when he got no response, he got down on one knee and felt for a pulse.

He frowned. Using his foot again, he rolled Loman over onto his back. He and Sherlock stared in silence.

The scalpel had plunged into his chest, the huge blade penetrating the heart.

John stood silently…staring…unmoving.

"John."

Nothing.

"John, it's over."

John nodded, the final remnants of the soldier fading away like a sigh, leaving him feeling empty, drained. He walked back to Sherlock and stood protectively near him, touching a hand to his head as if to confirm that they were both still alive.

"Together," Sherlock said, his voice husky with pain; it couldn't possibly have been emotion.

The effects of the blood loss and adrenalin crash finally hit them both. The doctor exhaled heavily, did a controlled slide down the wall to the ground, and managed to raise a hand to his arm to stem the bleeding from the deep incision made by the scalpel. Sherlock's body sagged, his head coming to rest on John's shoulder. John didn't object in the slightest.

In the distance, they heard sirens. A lot of sirens.

_At last. _

Honing in on John's torch, several panda cars, one very out-of-place looking black sedan, and an intimidating, unmarked black assault vehicle swarmed the area. Lestrade was out of the car on a run before the wheels of his car came to a stop.

Mycroft stood beside the open door of the sedan, his men at the ready behind him. As soon as he saw the two downed felons, and his brother and John, he issued a simple command.

"Stand down, gentlemen."

As his team reboarded the assault vehicle, he continued to watch from a distance. He saw Lestrade kneel between Sherlock and John and stealthily pocket the Browning which lay on the ground between them. Mycroft allowed himself a small nod of approval.

Almost in unison, Sherlock and John said to Lestrade, "He needs an ambulance."

Lestrade grinned. "Figured as much. You're both idjets!"

He signalled to the ambulances that it was safe. The medical crews rushed forward, as did the officers.

Shoulder to shoulder, Sherlock and John allowed their eyes to close and surrendered to the ministrations of the medics.

oOo

**CODA**

**SOME WEEKS LATER**

"I am not having this discussion with you," Sherlock said firmly from where he was safely and securely ensconced, which is to say sprawled, on the sofa.

"And why is that?" John asked, matching his tone. The steam from the tea wafted over his face. It spoke of warmth, and comfort, and home, its vapours saying that everything was fine, all fine.

"Because it's a ridiculous question."

"Why is it ridiculous?" John pressed.

"It's not even grammatically correct."

"You just don't want to acknowledge it's important."

"It's important? Why is it important?"

"Because it is, Sherlock. Trust me. It's about those useless emotions you don't want to acknowledge, like gratitude, and respect and"—John chose his word carefully—"caring."

'Would the answer change anything?"

"I think it might," John said, his voice soft.

"I choose not to agree."

"You're an idiot."

They both chuckled, each of them separately recalling the first time John had said that to Sherlock.

"Perhaps I would be willing to revisit the question at another time," said Sherlock, his eyes softening a bit.

John sighed. Sherlock clearly wasn't going to yield any further on this go-around. But John would, indeed, revisit the question that had underpinned their lives since the day they met.

The question: "Who saved who?"

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**Thanks so much to those who reviewed. I hope I responded to all of you (except the few who do not have PM activated, or those who read as guests): Aneeta Potter, Arty Diane, Azteka, FangFan, Guest, Hazelayes, Iccle fairy; johnsarmylady, MapleleafCameo, Marylouleach, MerryK, Mzzmarie, sevenpercent, WaffleNinja, and wrytingtyme. And, of course, the wonderful fans who chose to follow or fav the story. I'm not sure of the etiquette here about whether it's appropriate to you're your names them since you didn't make public declarations, but I thank you all! **

**Now that the story is finished, please feel free to post about anything that didn't work for you, too! We learn best from negative feedback (or so they tell me), but play nice. **

**I won't be posting another story for a while. My other writing – in this case, a play – beckons. Unless, of course, the Boys have other ideas that won't leave me alone.**


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